ARCADIA 


PAM 


By  BETTINA  VON  HUTTEN 


Author  of 

"Pam  Decides,"  ««  Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches,"  "Violett," 
etc. 


With  Illustrations  by  B.  MARTIN  JUSTICE 


A.  L.  BURT    COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1904, 

BT 
BETTINA  vox  HUTTEK 

COPYRIGHT,    1905, 

»»• 
MEAD  &  COMPACT. 


Published,  February 


To  you,  dear  Aunt  Susan, 

I  dedicate  this  Book 

As  an  inadequate  token  of  my  admiration 
and  love  for  you 

&v.  H. 


PREFACE 


THIS  book,  O  critics,  is  written  in  defence  of  no  theory,  in 
defiance  of  no  wise  and  beautiful  social  law. 

It  is  a  round,  unvarnished  tale,  told  in  no  spirit  of  either 
approval  or  disapproval  of  anything  which  in  it  comes  to 
pass.  There  is  a  saying  about  the  wicked  flourishing  like 
the  green  bay  tree,  and  another  about  the  hardness  of  the 
way  of  the  transgressor;  and  that  both  these  sayings  contain 
truth  cannot  be  denied  by  any  man  or  woman  who  has  eyes 
to  see. 

The  world  might  be  a  happier  and  better  place  if  virtue 
were  always  rewarded,  and  sin  always  punished,  but  this  is 
not  so,  and  doubtless  was  not  so  intended. 

And  I,  who  relate,  am  not  a  preacher.  So,  good  critics, 
gibbet  my  literary  inabilities,  laugh  at  my  literary  follies, 
weep  over  my  literary  dulness,  but  impute  not  to  me  the 
views  of  my  characters ! 

B.  v.  H. 


PAM 


PART    I 
CHAPTER  I 


TO  the  last  day  of  his  life  the  scent  of  heliotrope  recalled 
to  Christopher  Cazalet's  mind  a  vivid  picture  of  the  dusty 
white  road,  the  rough  wall  to  his  right  as  he  climbed,  the 
brilliance  of  the  southern  skies,  the  glare  of  the  sun  that 
afternoon. 

Long  before  he  caught  sight  of  the  flower's  royal  colour 
against  the  sky,  the  hot  waves  of  drowsy  odour  came  over 
the  wall  to  him  and  seemed  to  mingle  inextricably  with 
the  tangle  of  thoughts  in  his  excited  brain. 

A  girl,  running  down  the  hill  with  a  great  basket  of 
sun-dried  linen  balanced  on  her  head,  smiled  as  she  passed 
the  little  old  man,  but  he  paid  no  heed,  for  he  did  not 
see  her. 

Joy  at  his  daring  in  coming,  pride  in  his  success  in 
finding  the  place,  fear  of  being  badly  received,  a  child- 
like, godlike  love  of  the  beauty  of  the  day  and  the  view 
behind,  to  which  he  turned  every  few  minutes,  and  a  sen- 
suous delight  in  the  hot  sweetness  that  seemed  to  be,  in  some 
unexplained  way,  the  essence  of  the  whole  story — these 
things,  woven  and  interwoven  in  his  mind,  were  never 
to  be  forgotten.  And  then,  at  a  turn  in  the  road,  cluster- 
ing about  the  tops  of  the  great  carved  posts  at  the  sides 
of  a  gilt-iron  gateway,  great  tufts  of  dark  purple  heliotrope 
hung  in  the  sunlight.  In  his  ecstasy  Cazalet  took  off  his 
hat  and  stood  looking  up,  a  grotesque  enough  little  figure 
in  his  old-fashioned  black  coat,  his  large  feet  widely  turned 
out,  his  bald  head  gleaming.  "  Heliotrope!  "  he  exclaimed. 


2  P  AM 

"What  would  his  lordship  say?"  A  moment  later  he  was 
plodding  on  again  through  the  dust,  for  the  name  cut  in 
the  black  marble  square  at  the  side  of  the  gate  was  not  the 
one  for  which  he  was  looking. 

Tired  as  he  was  he  was  not  altogether  sorry  that  the 
way  was  longer,  particularly  as  the  stretch  of  wall  which 
now  ensued  was  adorned  along  its  top  with  a  tangle  of 
little  pink  roses  and  masses  of  the  flower  he  loved  the 
best  in  the  world,  and  now  for  the  first  time  saw  in  the 
perfection  of  its  southern  luxuriousness.  It  was  absolutely 
certain  that  the  person  whom  he  had  come  all  this  way  to 
see  would  care  very  little  about  seeing  him,  and  it  was  as 
certain  that  his  lordship  would  be  very  angry  if  he  ever 
knew.  But  in  the  meantime  his  lordship  was  many  miles 
away,  and  Cazalet's  trumpet-like  nose  was  enjoying  a  feast 
such  as  it  had  never  had  before. 

"  Villa  Arcadie."  That  was  it,  and  Cazalet,  as  he  read 
the  half-effaced  letters  to  the  right  of  the  rusty  gate,  put 
on  his  hat  and  brushed  his  boots  carefully  with  his  hand- 
kerchief. The  gate  was  ajar,  and  a  few  seconds  later  the 
old  man  was  walking  slowly  up  the  neglected  drive,  shaking 
his  head  slightly  at  the  evidences  of  an  at  least  comparative 
poverty.  The  shaggy  grass  under  the  trees  was  sparse  and 
uncut,  weeds  grew  in  the  road.  "  Poor  young  lady !  " 

Then,  as  another  waft  of  heliotrope  reached  him,  he  added 
briskly,  "  But  it  is — Arcadia!  " 

The  drive  was  not  long,  but  it  was  cunningly  planned 
in  a  series  of  curves,  so  that  Cazalet  came  to  the  house 
with  a  suddenness  that  startled  him;  a  square,  pink  villa, 
looking,  with  its  green  shutters  all  closed,  as  though  dozing 
in  the  heat. 

A  few  orange  trees  drooped  in  shabby  tubs  at  the  edge 
of  the  terrace,  and  to  the  right,  against  the  splendid  blue 
of  the  sea,  a  great  magnolia  blazed  back  at  the  sun,  its  glossy 


P  AM  3 

leaves  and  vivid  cream-coloured  flowers  gleaming  in  the 
glare.  Cazalet  felt  suddenly  very  warm,  and  wished  he 
had  not  dusted  his  boots  with  his  handkerchief. 

And  so  this  was  it!  This  simple,  shabby  house  was 
Pauline  Yeoland's  "Arcadia"!  The  little  man  sighed, 
and  for  some  reason  tears  came  to  his  eyes  as  he  went  slowly 
to  the  door  and  rang. 

He  heard  the  bell  somewhere  in  the  distance,  but  no  one 
answered  it,  and  after  a  pause  he  rang  again.  Then,  wiping 
his  eyes  gingerly  on  a  corner  of  one  of  his  gloves,  he  pre- 
pared to  meet  the  butler,  for  Christopher  Cazalet  was  used 
to  butlers. 

The  door  opened  suddenly,  before  any  slow  footsteps 
had  given  him  warning,  and  letting  a  gush  of  cool  air  out 
into  the  heat,  but  there  was  no  butler. 

A  child  stood  in  the  dusk  of  the  brick-paved  hall,  a  little 
girl  of  about  nine,  who  held  in  her  arms  a  small  monkey 
to  whose  misty  dark  eyes  her  own,  as  she  looked  coolly  at 
the  stranger,  bore  a  grotesque  resemblance. 

"This  is  Villa  Arcadia?" 

"  Yes." 

"Mr.  Sacheverel's  place?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  wish — I  wish  to  see  Mrs. — that  is — Mrs.  Sacheverel." 

The  child  shifted  the  monkey  to  the  other  arm.  "  There 
isn't  any  Mrs.  Sacheverel,"  she  returned  politely.  "  I  sup- 
pose you  mean  my  mother,  Pauline  Yeoland  ?  " 

Cazalet  caught  his  breath ;  he  had  never  been  told  of  this. 

"  Your  mother !    Yes — yes — I  mean — Miss  Pauline." 

His  evident  confusion  surprised  the  child,  and  after  a 
gravely  interrogative  look  she  drew  back  into  the  hall. 

"Won't  you  come  in  and  wait?"  she  said,  with  a  curi- 
ously grown-up  air;  "they  are  not  at  home  now,  but  they 
will  probably  be  back  before  long." 


4  P  AM 

Cazalet  followed  her  past  two  doors,  and  then  into  a 
room  nearly  opposite  the  house-door,  where,  he  had  time  to 
reflect,  the  kitchen  ought  to  be.  The  room  was  filled  with 
a  cool  green  dusk,  but  his  small  hostess  evidently  did  not 
consider  it  necessary  to  open  the  shutters.  Sitting  down  on 
a  little  gilt  sofa,  she  motioned  him  to  a  chair,  and  settled 
the  monkey  on  her  lap. 

"  It  is  very  warm  to-day,"  she  began  conversationally. 

"  Very." 

"You  should  not  have  come  so  early;  one  is  apt  to  get  a 
bad  migraine  in  the  sun.  I  shall  never  go  out  in  it  when 
I  am  grown-up." 

"You  do  now?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  sometimes ;  you  see,  I  am  only  ten." 

Cazalet  did  not  smile,  for  she  was  very  serious. 

"But  I  think  you  said  that — your  mother  is  out?"  he 
resumed  after  a  pause. 

"  Yes.  They  went  down  through  the  trees  to  the  sea, 
and  it  is  cool  there.  May  I  offer  you  some  refreshment?  " 

"  I  should  like  a  glass  of  water — I  am  thirsty." 

"  I  know,"  answered  the  child  sympathetically,  going  to 
the  bell ;  "  the  dust  makes  a  man's  throat  like  a  lime-kiln. 
It  is  unsafe  to  drink  pure  water  when  one  is  overheated,  but 
I  will  give  you  some  strop  a  I'orange — it  is  refreshing." 

During  the  minutes  that  ensued  before  the  answering  of 
the  bell,  she  sat  playing  lazily  with  the  monkey,  and  mak- 
ing an  occasional  remark,  obviously  out  of  politeness. 

When  at  last  the  silence  had  been  broken  by  slow  foot- 
steps outside,  and  the  door  opened,  a  middle-aged  woman 
with  a  hard,  sharp  face  came  in,  starting  when  she  saw 
the  visitor. 

"  I — didn't  know  any  one  had  come,"  she  began  apolo- 
getically, when  Cazalet,  rising,  turned  to  her. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Jane?  "  he  said  nervously. 


P  AM  5 

"  Mr.  Cazalet!    You  here,  sir?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  really  me,  Jane.  I — it  is  my  vacation,  and 
I — thought  I  would  come  and  see  how — you  were  getting 
on." 

The  woman  clasped  her  hands,  and  gazed  at  him,  utterly 
forgetting,  as  he  had  done,  the  presence  of  the  child. 

"  I  can't  rightly  believe  it  is  you,"  she  said.  "  'Is  lord- 
ship— 'is  lordship  is  not " 

Cazalet  shook  his  head  and  waved  his  hand  in  horrified 
negation.  "  No,  no !  his  lordship  is  very  well — unusually 
well,  this  summer." 

"Then — perhaps  'e  sent  you,  Mr.  Cazalet?" 

"  Oh,  no!  Oh,  no,  indeed,  his  lordship  did  not  send  me! 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  Jane,  he  does  not  know  that  I  have 
come." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Cazalet!  What  will  'e  say  when  he  'ears?" 
asked  the  woman,  evidently  half-frightened  by  the  thought. 

Cazalet  gave  a  little  nervous  laugh.  "  But  he  won't 
hear,  Jane.  God  forbid  that  he  should.  And  as  to  that, 
his  lordship  thinks  me  at  the  present  moment  eating  peri- 
winkles at  Margate." 

"  What  are  periwinkles? "  The  child's  voice  startled 
them  both.  Unobserved  she  had  come  quite  close  to  them, 
and,  the  monkey's  little  face  pressed  to  hers,  their  four  dark 
eyes  stared  in  solemn  curiosity  at  the  old  man. 

"  Periwinkles?    They  are — well,  shellfish,  you  know." 

"  And  why  didn't  you  tell  his  lordship  that  you  were 
coming?  " 

"  Dear  me !  "  ejaculated  Cazalet  helplessly. 

"  Never  mind  now,  Miss  Pam,  there's  a  good  little  girl." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Pilgrim !  "  the  child  answered,  not 
moving  her  eyes  from  Cazalet's  face.  "  Go  and  bring  some 
water  and  sirop  d'orange  for  Mr.  Cazalet.  That's  why  I 
rang." 


6  P  AM 

"  Your  mamma  will  be  very  much  displeased  if  you  bother 
Mr.  Cazalet." 

"  My  mamma  is  never  displeased.  And  some  of  the  little 
cakes — the  ones  I  hate !  "  went  on  the  child  with  a  sort  of 
patient  inexorability.  "  Why  didn't  you  tell  his  lordship 
that  you  were  coming?" 

"  Why  am  I  to  have  the  cakes  you  hate?  "  asked  Cazalet, 
in  return. 

"  Because  they  are  good.  Make  haste,  Pilgrim,  and — 
you  may  send  Antonio  with  the  refreshments." 

The  woman  sighed.  "  You  see  how  it  is,  Mr.  Caza- 
let; there's  no  doing  anything  with  her.  Well,  sir,  I  shall 
hope  to  see  you  again  before  you  go;  I  should  like  to  ask 
after  one  or  two  people  at  'ome,  if  I  make  so  bold  ?  " 

"Make  haste,  Pilgrim,  will  you?" 

When  the  servant  had  left  the  room  the  child  went  on, 
her  eyes  still  fixed  on  Cazalet's  face.  "  Now  tell  me,  please, 
why  you  didn't  tell  my  grandfather?  " 

"  Because  he — well,  upon  my  word,  I  hardly  know  what 
to  say  to  her!  "  With  the  curious  instinct  of  man  he  went 
to  the  window  in  his  despair  and,  pushing  open  one  half  of 
the  shutters,  stood  looking  out  at  the  wonderful  blue  of  the 
southern  sea. 

There  was  a  short  pause,  and  then  the  voice  behind  him 
resumed  with  a  majesty  which,  absurd  as  it  was,  reminded 
him  irresistibly  of  his  lordship.  "  You  really  might  as  well 
tell  me;  they  always  do  in  the  end,  you  know,  so  there's 
no  use  in  making  a  fuss."  The  last  phrase  was  so  familiar, 
both  in  substance  and  in  inflection,  that  Cazalet  wheeled 
about,  half-startled  and  half -amused. 

"  Bless  my  soul !  Miss ,  I  don't  even  know  your  name, 

but  you  are  so  like  his  lordship — your  way  of  speaking,  I 
cneum — that — it  is  remarkable !  " 

'"Yes,  I  am  considered  very  like  him;  we  have  the  same 


P  AM  7 

trick  of  tramping  up  and  down  with  our  hands  behind  our 
backs  when  we  are  nervous  or  troubled." 

"  I  see.  I  wonder  how  soon  they — that  is,  your  mother, 
will  be  coming;  I  am  rather  in  a  hurry." 

She  sat  down  as  he  spoke,  and  for  the  first  time  she 
laughed,  a  sudden,  delightfully  rnerry  laugh  that  brought 
dimples  to  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  and  danced  in  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  you  wicked  old  man !  You  are  not  a  bit  in  a  hurry. 
You  are  only  afraid  of  me ;  you  don't  want  to  tell  me.  Very 
well,  I  suppose  I  can  tell  you  instead.  You  didn't  tell  my 
grandfather  that  you  were  coming  here  because  you  were 
afraid!" 

"Afraid!  That  is  too  much,"  said  Cazalet.  "What  I 
do  with  my  holiday  is  surely " 

"  None  of  my  grandfather's  business.  Just  so ;  and  yet> 
that  is  why  you  didn't  tell  him.  He  must  be  a  very  funny 
old  man !  " 

She  stood  in  the  parallelogram  of  vivid  sunlight  he  had 
let  in,  her  little  slim  figure  in  its  faded  cotton  frock  very 
erect,  the  monkey  on  her  shoulder.  He  noticed  with  sur- 
prise that  her  hair,  less  dark  than  he  had  at  first  thought,, 
was  arranged  in  a  great  flat  knot  on  top  of  her  head. 

"Funny!  well,  no.  I  don't  think  any  one  ever  called 
his  lordship  funny " 

"  I  mean  because  he  hates  mother." 

"  Hates!  "  Poor  Cazalet's  head  almost  swam,  but  at  this 
juncture,  to  his  great  relief,  a  young  footman  in  a  shabby 
livery  came  in  with  a  tray,  which  he  set  down  on  the  table, 
and  of  which  the  little  girl  at  once  began  to  do  the  honours. 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  hates  her,  of  course  he  does!  If  he  didn't 
he  would  not  have  been  so  nasty  to  her  that  time.  It  really 
wasn't  her  fault,  you  see,"  she  went  on,  bearing  a  glass  full 
of  thickish  yellow  liquid  to  him,  her  left  hand  balancing 
the  monkey,  "  that  father  was  married." 


8  P  AM 

If  the  sweet  drink  which  he  hastily  swallowed  had  been 
flavoured  with  petroleum  poor  Cazalet  would  not  have 
known  it. 

He  had  imagined  all  sorts  of  receptions  for  himself,  but 
this  outdid  the  most  startling  his  mind  had  been  able  to 
conceive. 

"  You  are — a  strange  child,"  he  stammered,  setting  down 
his  glass.  "  I  never  saw  a  little  girl  at  all  like  you." 

"  Yes,  I  daresay.  What  I  meant  was,"  she  went  on,  strok- 
ing her  monkey  and  speaking  with  thoughtful  slowness, 
"  that  my  grandfather  was  very  unjust  to  mother.  Of 
course  she  and  father  were  sorry  about  Mrs.  Kennedy,  but 
they  couldn't  very  well  kill  her,  could  they?" 

"Oh,  dear  me!"  murmured  Cazalet  under  his  breath, 
picking  up  his  hat. 

"  Mrs.  Kennedy  was  father's  wife,"  pursued  the  child 
gravely,  evidently  mistaking  his  exclamation  for  a  question. 
"  His  name  used  to  be  Kennedy,  you  know." 

"  And  your  name — what  do  they  call  you  ?  " 

"  Pamela,  just  Pamela.  It  appears  that  children  whose 
parents  are  not  married  have  only  one  name." 

Before  he  was  obliged  to  reply  she  had  risen  suddenly  and 
gone  to  the  nearest  window.  "  Oh ! "  she  cried,  her  face 
suddenly  glowing,  "  here  they  are !  " 


CHAPTER  II 


BEHIND  the  villa  a  gentle,  olive-covered  slope  led  to 
the  sea,  and  through  the  trees,  as  though  they  had  just 
risen  from  the  blue  water,  came  Pauline  Yeoland  and 
"  the  man,"  as  Christopher  Cazalet  had  most  often  heard 
him  called. 

Over  the  softly  stirring  lights  and  shadows  cast  by  the 
trees  on  the  coarse  grass,  one  of  his  arms  lying  across  her 
shoulders,  moving  slowly,  as  if  from  pleasant  fatigue,  their 
movements  harmonising  like  the  voices  in  an  often-sung 
duet,  they  emerged  from  the  trees,  passed  up  a  little  flight 
of  stone  steps,  and  came  towards  the  house,  not  talking, 
yet  evidently  in  closest  companionship  of  mind  and  feeling. 

She  wore  white,  and  carried  a  lacy  parasol,  against  which 
her  bright  hair  stood  out  in  high  relief;  her  skirt  was  long, 
and  she  held  it  up  a  little  as  she  walked. 

The  man  wore  white  flannels,  and  a  bit  of  red  shone  out 
from  beneath  his  dark  face. 

Cazalet,  as  he  stood  watching  their  approach,  felt  his 
heart  throb  hard.  What  would  they  say  to  him?  He  was 
an  uninvited  guest,  and  they  might  even  consider  him  an  in- 
truder. 

Pam,  standing  in  front  of  him,  did  not  speak;  she  was 
studying  his  expression  in  the  reflection  in  the  window,  and 
it  evidently  satisfied  her. 

At  last,  as  her  parents  crossed  the  last  plot  of  grass  before 
the  house,  the  child  called,  without  moving,  "  Mother,  some 
one  has  come !  " 


io  P  AM 

"  Some  one  has  come?    Who,  dear?  " 

The  young  woman  stood  still  and  closed  her  parasol. 
"Madame  de  Vaucourt?"  Then,  seeing  the  old  man,  as 
Pam  came  through  the  window,  she  shook  her  head  smiling. 
"  I  can't  see,  it  is  so  bright  out  here.  Who  is  it,  Pam?" 

"Mr.  Cazalet!" 

Cazalet  followed  the  child  as  she  uttered  his  name,  but 
Pauline  did  not  recognise  him.  "Cazalet?"  she  repeated 
vaguely,  and  then  before  she  could  speak  she  had  remem- 
bered, and  dropping  her  parasol  came  towards  him,  her  hand 
held  out  cordially. 

"Cazzy!  You!  How  glad  I  am!  Guy,  this  is  Mr. 
Cazalet,  whom  I  have  known  all  my  life." 

The  big  man  with  the  handsome  blue  chin  shook  hands 
heartily  with  his  guest,  and  then  turned  to  the  little  girl, 
who  stood  looking  on  with  something  like  the  satisfaction 
of  a  stage-manager  who  has  arranged  a  good  scene. 

"Well,  Pam?" 

"Well,   father!" 

Cazalet's  eyes  were  wet  as  he  dropped  Pauline's  hand. 

"  It  is  good  of  you  to  be  so  kind  to  me,"  he  said,  clearing 
his  throat.  "  I — it  was  bold  of  me  to  come." 

"  Bold !    It  was — dear  of  you,  Cazzy !  " 

The  brilliant  face  had  grown,  it  seemed  to  the  man  who 
had  not  seen  it  for  twelve  years,  more  tender,  and  the 
smile  gentler,  than  of  old. 

"  It  was  my  holiday,"  he  explained  falteringly,  "  and — 
I  had  never  been  out  of  England  before — I  thought  I  would 
come  here,  and  see  how  you  were." 

"  My  father,  then,  doesn't  know  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  his  lordship  would  not — that  is,  my  holiday 
is  my  own,  Miss  Pauline,"  he  returned  with  some  dignity. 

"  Of  course  it  is.  But  I  don't  believe,  Cazzy,  that  he 
would  mind  so  much  as  you  think." 


P  AM  11 

"  His  lordship  has  not  spoken  to  me  on  the  subject  for 
years,  but  I  took  it  for  granted  that  it  would  be  wiser  not 
to  tell  him  of  my  intentions." 

She  seemed  on  the  point  of  speaking,  a  little  smile  curving 
her  lips,  and  then  was  silent.  "  I  hope  he  is  well  ?  "  she 
asked  at  length,  watching  "  the  man  "  and  their  daughter 
playing  with  the  monkey. 

"  Very  well,  I  am  glad  to  say." 

"And  my  sister?" 

"  Mrs.  Maxse  is  well  too." 

But  she  had  not  listened;  and  he  saw  that  her  interest 
was  perfunctory,  as  her  eyes  rested  on  Sacheverel's  dark 
face.  She  had  grown  very  far  away  from  her  old  home, 
Cazalet  felt. 

Presently,  as  the  monkey,  after  being  tossed  by  Sacheverel 
up  into  the  air  like  a  baby,  was  returned  to  Pam,  Pauline 
called,  picking  up  her  parasol,  "  Guy,  would  you  mind  tell- 
ing Pilgrim  to  prepare  a  room  for  Mr.  Cazalet?" 

Sacheverel  nodded,  and  went  through  the  window,  the 
child  with  him. 

"  But — I  couldn't  think,  Miss  Pauline — I  beg  your  par- 
don." 

"  Nonsense,  of  course  you  are  to  stay  here.  You  are  the 
only  person  of — the  old  days  who  has  come,  Cazzy — and  I 
love  you  for  it." 

She  loved  him  for  it — him,  her  father's  steward!  It  was 
so  like  her,  the  exaggeration;  she  had  changed  so  little. 

"  How  did  you  know  where  we  were?"  she  went  on  a 
minute  later  as  they  entered  the  room  and  she  threw  open 
the  windows,  letting  the  light  stream  in  on  the  shabby  fur- 
niture, but  also  on  the  masses  of  flowers  and  the  thousand 
little  things  that  go  to  make  a  room  comfortable  and  home- 
like. 

Cazalet  hesitated.     "  His  lordship  told  me  once  that  you 


12  P  AM 

were  living  here,  and — I  had  often  wondered,  and  I  have 
a  good  memory." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  see.  You  think  he  is  still  very  angry?  "  she 
asked,  the  queer  little  smile  again  stirring  her  lips. 

"  Angry — ah,  yes,  Miss  Pauline.     His  lordship " 

The  old  man  hesitated,  his  plain  face  red  and  troubled, 
and  as  they  followed  the  others  into  the  pleasant,  shabby 
room  she  laid  her  hand  for  an  instant  on  his  arm. 

"  I  know,  Cazzy — I  know.  It  was  good  of  you  to  come, 
and  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  Tell  me,  did  Rosamund's  boy 
live?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  returned  the  old  man  hastily,  in  evident  relief 
at  the  change  of  subject ;  "  he  is  a  great  tall  fellow  now." 

"What  is  his  name?" 

"  Ratty,  they  call  him ;  it  is  some  French  name,  I  believe." 

"  Ratty  1    How  extraordinary!  "  she  laughed  gaily. 

Cazalet  watched  her  with  delight.  He  knew  that  she 
deserved  anything  rather  than  the  obviously  unfeigned  hap- 
piness that  shone  in  her  lovely  eyes,  but  he  had  always  been 
too  fond  of  her  not  to  be  glad  that  things  had  turned  out 
as  they  had. 

"  You  have  made  friends  with  Pam,  I  see,"  she  went  on, 
presently  taking  off  her  hat  and  patting  her  curly  hair  in 
a  way  he  remembered;  "  isn't  she  funny?  " 

"  She  is  remarkably  like  his  lordship!  " 

"Isn't  she?  It  is  perfectly  absurd,  sometimes;  she  has 
a  way  of  walking  up  and  down  with  her  hands  behind  her 
back " 

Cazalet  laughed.  "  I  know — when  she  is  nervous.  She 
told  me!" 

"  Oh,  she  told  you!    Isn't  she  delicious?  " 

"  She  is  very  clever.  And  she  seems  to — understand 
things,"  he  began,  hesitating. 

She  shook  her  head  gravely.     "Yes — I  know  what  you 


mean.  I  suppose  it — startles  you?"  She  rose  from  the 
chair  into  which  she  had  sunk,  and  stood  looking  thought- 
fully at  him. 

"  You  see,  Cazzy,  I  have  never  tried  to — hide  things 
from  her,  or  from  any  one  else;  I  was  not  ashamed.  You 
probably  can't  understand  that,  but  it  is  so.  I  have  never 
called  myself  by — any  name  but  my  own,  or  pretended  to 
be  married.  And  when  she  was  born,  we  decided  at  once 
not  to  sacrifice  to  any  gods  in  which  we  do  not  believe,  even 
for  her;  she  knows  all  about  it." 

"And — you  call  her  Yeoland,  too?" 

"Of  course.  What  else?  Oh,  I  know  all  you  think, 
for  you  think  what  every  one  does,  except  a  few.  I  am 
different,  you  know;  I  always  was.  It  doesn't  bother  me 
a  bit,  the  opinion  of  the  world.  I  suppose  it's  true,  Cazzy, 
what  they  say,  about  all  the  Yeoland  women  being  ready  to 
ruin  themselves  for — love.  We  are  none  of  us  really  good, 
you  know,  except  poor  Rosamund,  and  she,"  she  added  with 
simple  conclusiveness,  "  was  so  very  plain.  I  remember  once, 
when  I  was  a  little  child,  hearing  some  one  say  that  no 
woman  with  Yeoland  blood  ever  had  any  morals,  and  I  sup- 
pose it's  true." 

She  spoke  in  a  tone  of  mild  speculation,  not  unlightened 
with  amusement,  but  the  old  man  winced. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Miss  Pauline,  don't  say  such  things!  " 
he  cried  involuntarily. 

Her  smile  changed,  as  she  looked  at  him,  to  one  of  great 
gentleness,  and  laying  her  ringless  right  hand  on  his  arm, 
she  said  kindly:  "  I  am  sorry;  I  didn't  mean  to  shock  you, 
but  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  all  about  my  aunt,  Lady 
Renshaw,  for  instance.  She  stayed  at  home,  and — kept  up 
appearances,  so  she  was  accepted  by  the  world;  whereas 
I — I  have  one  lover,  who  is  for  me  the  only  man  in  the 
world,  but  as  he  couldn't  marry  me,  I  came  to  him  anyway, 


i*  P  A  M 

and  I  would  die  for  him  to-morrow — and  I  am  an  outcast! 
It  is  funny,  isn't  it  ?  "  There  was  no  bitterness  in  her  voice, 
and  the  old  man,  trembling  with  a  mixture  of  feelings,  knew 
that  she  was  sincere. 

"  If  you  had  been  unhappy "  he  ventured. 

.  "  If  I  had  been  unhappy,  I  might  have  repented  arid  re- 
turned home  to  be  forgiven.  But  as  it  is,  Cazzy,  I  pity 
every  other  woman  in  the  world  because — she  has  not  Guy!  " 

As  she  spoke,  Sacheverel  came  in  and  she  ran  to  him.  "  I 
have  been  telling  Mr.  Cazalet  how  bad  we  both  are,"  she 
said,  slipping  her  arm  through  his. 

"Bad?" 

"  Because  we  are  happy." 

Sacheverel  turned  and  looked  at  the  little  old  runaway 
from  the  camp  of  the  Philistines. 

"  Is  it  bad  to  be  happy  ?  "  he  asked. 

Cazalet  looked  at  him  keenly,  and  the  steward  had  some 
knowledge  of  human  nature.  The  man's  strong  dark  face, 
while  full  of  a  certain  hardy  animalism,  was  not  bad,  and 
its  expression  of  rapt  contentment  was  rather  splendid. 

"  For  if  it  is — we  are  damned,  dearest,"  he  added,  turn- 
ing to  the  woman. 

And  as  he  watched  them  Cazalet  realised  that  here,  in 
spite  of  sin  and  irregularity,  was  that  rarest  thing  in  the 
world,  a  real  union. 


CHAPTER  III 


PILGRIM,  with  her  neat  brown  gown  and  severe  mien, 
was  not  at  all  the  kind  of  woman  who  fits  into  the  frame 
of  a  moonlight  summer  sky  by  the  Mediterranean. 

She  was  a  gaunt  woman,  with  many  sharp  angles  in  her 
person,  and  an  appallingly  regular  row  of  porcelain  teeth, 
over  which  her  faded  lips  closed  as  tightly  as  if  she  were 
afraid  some  one  might  steal  them. 

But  as  she  walked  up  and  down  that  evening  on  the  ter- 
race farthest  from  the  villa,  waiting  for  the  steward,  the 
poor  woman's  mind  was  in  as  great  a  whirl  as  if  she  were 
young  and  beautiful,  and  waiting  for  a  lover. 

Whatever  one's  position  and  station  may  be,  one  has  but 
one  life,  and  Jane  Pilgrim  had  sacrificed  hers  that  night 
twelve  years  ago,  when  she  had  accompanied  her  young  mis- 
tress to  Dover,  where  Sacheverel,  the  tenor,  was  awaiting 
them. 

And  while  the  mistress,  rapt  in  the  perfect  warmth  of 
her  great  love,  felt  no  cold,  the  maid,  standing  alone  and 
bereft  of  her  old  garment  of  self-respect,  shivered  and  ached 
under  the  bitter  winds  that  shook  her  as  they  blew  un- 
heeded by  the  woman  for  whose  sake  she  had  denuded 
herself. 

The  joy  was  all  Pauline  Yeoland's;  the  shame  all  Jane 
Pilgrim's.  And  the  natural  consequence  of  it  was  that 
while  Pauline  in  her  happiness  grew  sweeter  and  gentler, 
losing  the  carelessness  and  flightiness  of  former  days,  Jane, 
all  unrewarded,  became  bitterer  and  sharper  as  time  went 

15 


ib  P  AM 

on.  All  of  which  is  as  things  should  not  be,  but  as  they 
sometimes  are.  The  sight  of  Christopher  Cazalet  that 
afternoon  had  given  the  woman  a  great  shock,  calling  back 
old  faces  and  old  voices  to  her  memory  and  bringing  to  her 
the  feeling  of  old  times  in  a  degree  almost  painful.  She 
so  longed  for  a  talk  with  the  visitor  that  she  would  probably 
have  ventured  to  ask  her  mistress  to  be  allowed  to  have  a 
few  words  with  him,  if  Cazalet  himself  had  not  sent  word 
to  her  that  he  wished  to  see  her,  and  would  come  out  later 
to  smoke  his  pipe  in  her  company. 

At  last  he  came,  and  they  sat  down  on  a  stone  bench 
facing  seawards. 

"  Well,  Jane,  and  so  here  we  are,"  he  began,  stuffing  his 
little  meerschaum  pipe  from  a  leather  bag. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Cazalet.  I'm  sure  it's  a  surprise  to  see  you 
here." 

"  It  must  be.  The  truth  is,  Jane,  it  is  my  annual  holiday, 
and  I  couldn't  resist " 

'  'Is  lordship,  I  daresay,  wouldn't  be  pleased 

"  His  lordship  would  be  very  angry.  I  had  no  idea  of 
ever  telling  him,"  the  little  man  went  on,  "  but,  now — I 
am  not  sure." 

"You're  not  sure,  Mr.  Cazalet?" 

"  You  see,  Jane,  I  had  never  heard  that  there  was  a  child." 

"Oh!     Oh,  yes.     There's  Miss  Pam." 

"How  old  is  she?" 

"  Ten,  sir." 

"  H'm !  It — seems  a  pity.  I  mean,  she  is  an  extraor- 
dinary little  thing;  very  precocious.  I  had  a  long  talk  with 
her." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  She  has — few  delusions.  She  seems  to  understand  her 
mother's  situation  far  too  well.  I  confess  I  am  puzzled< 
Jane." 


P  A  M  i? 

Pilgrim  was  silent.  She  had  not  been  called  Jane  since  she 
left  Monks'  Yeoland. 

"  And,  of  course,"  the  steward  went  on,  smoking  thought- 
fully, his  bald  head  bent  over  the  hand  in  which  his  pipe 
was  snuggled,  "  you  took  your  choice  then — when  you 
went,  and  I  can  quite  understand  that  living  with  them, 
and  seeing  them  so — happy — you  have  got  so  used  to  it  all, 
that  it  has  lost  its  look  of  strangeness " 

Jane  Pilgrim  rose  suddenly. 

"Me!  I,  Mr.  Cazalet!  /  got  used  to  it!  That  it's 
lost  its  look  of  strangeness  to  me!  Me,  that  has  cried 
myself  to  sleep  night  and  night  again!  Me,  that  hussies 
with  gendarmes  and  chassoors  turns  up  their  noses  at,  be- 
cause I  live  in  such  a  house!  Me,  a  respectable  girl,  the  child 
of  lawful  wedded  parents!  Mr.  Cazalet,  you  don't  know!  " 

Her  face  worked,  her  voice  broke,  and  Cazalet  let  his 
pipe  go  out. 

"  There,  there,  don't  cry — or  rather  do.  It  will  do 
you  good.  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  am  sure,  Jane.  I  didn't 
mean  to  hurt  your  feelings.  But  I  am  glad  you  feel  it  this 
way,  for  you  will  understand  what  I  am  going  to  say.  It's 
about  the  child,  Miss  Pam." 

Pilgrim  wiped  her  eyes  and  rolled  her  handkerchief  into 
a  ball  as  she  listened. 

"  But  there's  no  use,  Mr.  Cazalet ;  she  understands  it  as 
well  as  you  or  I.  They  never  pretend,  you  know.  It's 
awful.  At  first  I  used  to  call  'er  '  Madame '  to  the  other 
servants  in  the  'otels,  but  when  she  found  out  she  nearly 
killed  me — Miss  Pauline,  I  mean.  And  Miss  Pam " 

"  I  know.  She  told  me  herself.  But  though  she  knowss 
my  good  Jane,  she  cannot  understand.  And  it  seems  to 
me  that  if  I  could  persuade  his  lordship  to  take  the  poor  little 
thing,  do  you  think  they  would  let  her  go?  " 

"To  Monks'  Yeoland?    I  know  they  would.     Oh,  Mr.- 


is  P  AM 

Cazalet,  it's  an  awful  thing,  but  she  doesn't  love  Miss 
Pam  as  a  wedded  mother  would.  She  is  kind  and  good 
to  her,  but — it's  all  him  really." 

"Yes.    I  saw  that.    Then  you  think  they'd  let  her  go?" 

Pilgrim  hesitated.  "  I  am  almost  sure.  It  would  save 
her,  and  I  often  worry  about  Pam — Miss  Pam,  I  mean. 
It  would  be  awkward  when  she  grew  older.  The  people 
they  see  aren't  the  people  for  a  young  girl." 

Cazalet  did  not  answer,  but  his  old  face  saddened. 

"  There  are  one  or  two  gentlemen — the  Count  de  Vau- 
court,  who  lives  at  the  villa  below  us — he  comes.  He's 
married  to  his  wife,  but  she  was  divorced,  and  her  maid 
told  me  that  no  one  in  Paris  goes  to  see  her.  They  come, 
and  an  Italian  lady.  She  acts  in  plays,  and  is  very  rich  and 
famous,  but  she  isn't  respectable.  She  is  invited  everywhere," 
the  woman  added  hastily,  "  but  because  she's  an  artiste, 
Marie,  the  Countess's  maid,  says.  They're  the  only  women. 
And  the  men — well " 

"  They  must  be  gentlemen,"  remarked  the  steward 
sharply,  "  or  he  wouldn't  introduce  them  to  her." 

"  Of  course  they  are  gentlemen ;  one  of  them's  a  duke. 
But  I  don't  like  'em,  and  what  would  they  think  of  Pam 
when  she  is  grown — whose  child  is  she?  Wouldn't  they 
just  say  '  What  was  good  enough  for  the  mother  is  good 
enough  for  her '  ?  Of  course  they  would !  " 

Cazalet  nodded. 

"  That  was  what  I  meant.  I  shall  tell  his  lordship,  Jane. 
He  has  grown  older  and  is  lonely,  too.  I  hope  they  will 
let  her  come.  Mrs.  Maxse  is  there  with  her  son,  and  she 
always  was  fond  of  Miss  Pauline." 

"  Yes,  Miss  Rosamund  is  kind.  Oh,  Mr.  Cazalet,  do 
try,  sir.  It  would  be  a  good  work.  It — them  two  are 
like  a  pair  of  children.  They  don't  care  for  anything  so 
long  as  they  can  be  together.  I  remember  that  day  when 


P  AM  19 

Miss  Pauline  said  she  was  going,  how  'is  lordship  told  her 
'  Men  are  never  true  to  women,  but  they  at  least  pretend 
to  be  to  their  wives.  This  fellow  will  leave  you  in  a  year.' 
Oh,  the  things  his  lordship  said  to  her!  And  they  were 
all  wrong.  Mr.  Sacheverel  never  looks  at  any  woman. 
I  don't  believe  he  knows  there  are  any  in  the  world  but 
her.  And  leave  her?  'E  hasn't  left  her  for  a  day  in  all 
these  years,  Mr.  Cazalet!  It's  all  wrong.  They  ought  to 
be  un'appy,  for  the  moral,  sir! — though  God  knows  I 
couldn't  bear  to  see  her  un'appy — but  they  are  the  'appiest 
two  people  in  the  world.  And  to  think  how  respectable 
married  folks  do  fight  and  hate  each  other!  " 
"  Well,  I  shall  speak  to  his  lordship,  Jane." 
The  steward  rose  and  knocked  his  pipe  against  a  tree. 
"  I  shall  then  write  Miss  Pauline  on  the  subject.  God 
bless  my  soul!  What's  that?"  he  added  pointing  to  some- 
thing white  in  a  near  shadow. 

"  It's  only  me,"  observed  the  white  thing,  rising,  and  prov- 
ing to  be  Pamela  in  a  frilly  nightgown. 

"Oh,  Miss  Pam!  You  have  been  listening!  Fie  on 
you!" 

The  child  laughed.  "  Why  should  I  be  fied  on?  I  came 
out  for  a  walk  because  it  is  so  warm,  and  you  didn't  hear 
me,  and  I  did  hear  you.  If  you'd  have  heard  me  you'd 
have  stopped  talking.  When,"  she  went  on,  turning  to 
Cazalet,  "  am  I  to  go  to  my  grandfather's?  "  The  old  man 
watched  her  curiously. 

"  Aren't  you  ashamed  to  listen  to  what  was  not  meant 
for  you?  "  he  asked,  not  reproachfully,  but  as  a  question  de- 
manding an  answer.  She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  No.  What  is  meant  for  me  is  never  interesting.  When 
am  I  to  go  to  my  grandfather's  ?  " 

"  Your  grandfather  won't  love  you  if  you  sneak,"  put  ia 
Pilgrim. 


20  P  AM 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Pilgrim !  " 

Then  the  child,  whose  hair,  reaching  below  her  knees, 
hung  about  her  small  face  and  over  her  shoulders  like  a 
mantle,  turned  again  to  Cazalet. 

"  When  am  I  to  go  to  my  grandfather?  "  she  repeated. 


CHAPTER  IV 


EARLY  the  next  morning  Cazalet  was  awakened  by  a 
loud  knocking  at  his  door,  and  a  minute  later  Pam  was 
coiled  up  at  the  foot  of  his  bed,  her  stiffly  starched  pink 
frock  like  a  fresh  flower,  her  hands  clasped  around  her 
pointed  knees. 

"  Mother  sent  Antonio  to  wake  you,  so  I  thought  I'd 
come.  You  must  hurry,  for  we're  going  to  a  picnic." 

"A  picnic!" 

"  Yes.  We  are  going  on  the  Vaucourt's  yacht  to  the 
island  for  luncheon,  and  then  on — somewhere.  They  all 
dine  here  to-night.  Aren't  you  glad?  "  she  added  curiously, 
studying  his  face. 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course !  but  I  think  perhaps  I  had  better  not 
go.  You  see,  my  dear,  I  am  not — that  is,  I  am  enly  his 
lordship's  steward." 

"  Rubbish !  Mother  says  you're  to  go.  It's  great  fun ; 
I'm  going.  Madame  Ravaglia  is  going,  too,  and  she'll  re- 
cite. It's  splendid  when  she  recites ;  makes  one  cold  all  down 
one's  spine." 

Cazalet  gasped.  The  great  Ravaglia,  to  see  whom,  as 
Pia  Tolomei,  he  bad  paid  his  fifteen  shillings  six  months 
before,  and  whose  history  was  in  every  mouth — he  was  to 
meet  her! 

"  I  love  her  dearly,"  the  child  went  on,  hopping  down 
from  the  bed  and  making  a  low  curtsey  to  herself  in  the 
glass.  "She  teaches  me  to  recite;  I  have  great  dramatic 
talent.  Oh,  there's  Caliban !  " 

si 


22  P  AM 

Poor  Cazalet  was  in  such  a  mental  state  that  if  when 
he  opened  the  door  the  real  Caliban  of  The  Tempest  had 
come  in  he  would  hardly  have  been  surprised,  but  it  was 
only  the  monkey,  who  fled,  chattering  and  excited,  into 
his  mistress's  arms,  and  lay  there  like  a  baby  while  she 
soothed  him. 

"  He  has  got  out !  They  lock  him  up  because  he  gets 
so  seasick,  but  he  always  feels  when  there's  going  to  be  a 
picnic,  and  he  always  comes.  Don't  you,  Cally?  " 

Then  she  added,  "  Well,  I'll  go  now,  and  please  make 
haste,  for  it's  after  six  and  we  always  start  at  seven.  It's 
so  warm,  you  know."  Cazalet  rose  in  a  tremor  of  excite- 
ment. 

It  was  such  a  change  from  his  quiet  life  in  the  silent  house 
in  Yeoland. 

Day  after  day,  year  after  year,  he  rose  there,  knowing 
just  what  the  hours  held  for  him.  A  talk  with  his  lordship, 
a  ride  over  the  estate,  slow  conversations  with  slow-minded 
tenants,  heavy  English  meals  served  by  his  good  old  house- 
keeper, his  sleep  after  luncheon,  his  London  paper,  more 
work,  his  glass  of  whiskey  and  water,  bed. 

And  this  golden  day  whose  bold  ringers  had  forced  his 
shaded  windows  held  for  him — what? 

The  old  man  almost  scampered  to  the  window  and  let 
in  the  light.  Before  him  stretched  the  sea,  sparkling  and 
blue  as  the  sky  above  it.  A  strong  scent  of  heliotrope  came 
up  to  him  from  the  garden,  bringing  with  it  a  sudden  vivid 
remembrance  of  his  feelings  as,  yesterday  on  the  hot  road, 
it  had  reached  him  for  the  first  time. 

It  was  all  wrong,  of  course  he  ought  to  go  at  once,  and 
his  staying  was  a  tacit  approval  of  the  family  disgrace;  but 
— his  holiday  was  his  own,  and  he  was,  after  all,  not  his 
lordship's  servant. 

Half   an   hour  later  a  merry,   rosy   Ca/.alet,   ten   years 


P  AM  23 

younger  than  the  old  man  who  had  only  yesterday  plodded 
up  the  hill,  joined  the  little  party  on  the  lawn. 

Pauline,  in  a  charming  costume  of  blue  linen,  gave  him 
her  hand  with  her  old  careless  cordiality,  and  Sacheverel 
was  politely  friendly. 

"  A  perfect  day  for  a  picnic,"  he  said,  as  the  shabby  young 
footman  started  off  down  the  hill  with  a  bundle  of  parasols 
and  wraps.  "  I  am  glad  you  are  to  enjoy  it  with  us." 
Cazalet  repeated  his  doubts  to  them,  but  Pauline  laughed 
gaily.  "  My  dear  Cazzy,  you  have  proved  yourself  our 
friend  by  coming,  and  as  to  that,  you  have  always  been  my 
father's  friend." 

Sacheverel  took  up  his  hat.  "  We'd  better  start,  Pauline ; 
it  is  rather  late." 

The  way  to  tta  sea  led  first  through  an  olive  orchard, 
then  through  a  perfectly  kept  park,  which  Pauline  told 
her  guest  was  the  property  of  their  host,  Count  de  Vau- 
court,  and  then,  twisting  and  turning  curiously,  it  struck 
into  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  the  steward  found  himself 
in  an  underground  gallery  cut  out  of  solid  rock,  and  lighted 
by  an  occasional  air-hole,  on  which  the  bright  sky  seemed 
to  rest. 

At  the  foot  of  the  descent  spread  the  brilliant  blue  sea, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  stone  pier,  where  the  yacht  was  moored, 
several  people  were  standing  about,  talking  and  laughing. 
The  Countess,  a  handsome  woman  of  about  thirty-eight, 
with  a  carefully  done  up  face  under  a  thick  lace  veil,  greeted 
the  steward,  who  was  introduced  merely  as  a  friend,  with 
civil  indifference,  and  then,  when  a  small,  rather  fat  man 
in  knickers  had  shaken  hands  with  him,  Cazalet  found  him- 
self making  a  low  bow  to  a  thin,  yellow-faced  woman  in 
an  unbecomingly  plain  hat  and  a  crumpled  linen  gown. 
This  was  she  who  had  made  him  cry  like  a  baby  in  the 
Italian  play  of  which  he  had  not  understood  a  word.  Pam 


24  P  AM 

stood  on  one  side  watching  the  little  scene  with  her  curious 
air  of  detached  curiosity,  and  when  Cazalet,  after  a  stum- 
bling remark  to  the  great  artiste,  had  turned  in  his  embar- 
rassment to  the  little  white  yacht,  the  child  came  forward, 
and  sitting  down  by  Madame  Ravaglia,  took  her  thin  hand 
in  hers  and  kissed  it  reverently. 

"  Buon'  giorno,  piccina!  " 

"  Buon'  giorno,  grandezza!" 

The  two,  so  unlike,  smiled  at  each  other,  and  Cazalet, 
turning,  saw  with  a  little  start  that  something  identical 
looked  out  from  the  two  pairs  of  eyes. 

And  then,  as  they  all  went  on  board,  the  old  man  sighed 
as  he  recalled  the  same  look  in  the  eyes  of  Caliban  the 
evening  before.  The  veiled  sadness  of  monkey-eyas  has  in 
it  something  approaching  the  expression  of  those  out  of 
which  looks  the  sad  mystery  of  genius. 

There  is  an  island  lying  flat  on  the  water  not  far  from 
the  slope  on  which  Pauline  Yeoland's  Arcadia  was  situated, 
and  to  this  island,  after  a  two  hours'  flight  under  the  shore, 
the  yacht  Delphine  bent  its  wings. 

A  cool  breeze  had  come  up  and  the  boat  sped  over  crisp 
ruffled  waves  that  now  and  then  broke  into  a  white  frill 
and  sparkled  in  the  sun. 

"  The  landing  is  in  there — quite  hidden,  you  see,"  Pain 
explained  to  Cazalet.  "  The  island  belongs  to  the  monks, 
but  M.  de  Vaucourt  has  rented  a  little  bit  of  the  wood,  and 
we  come  often — it's  cooler  than  on  the  mainland." 

It  was  very  beautiful,  and  the  old  man  who  had  drudged 
and  toiled  for  others  all  his  life,  who  had  never  had  any 
pleasure,  and  to  whom  Love  had  turned  a  scornful  wing 
felt  as  though  he  were  young  for  the  first  time. 

Sacheverel  and  Miss  Pauline  were  not  married;  the  little 
painted  Countess  was  not  visited;  and  as  to  the  plain,  silent 
woman  with  the  monkey-eyes 1 


P  AM  25 

Yet  these  bad  people  were  all  charming,  and  in  his  sudden 
moral  paralysis  Cazalet  felt  that  they  were  all  charming 
because  they  were  all  happy. 

How  gay  they  were!  The  Count  had  brought  a  great 
basket  on  board,  and  its  contents  remained  a  mystery  until 
just  before  they  landed  on  the  island,  when  he  opened  it 
and  tossed  from  it  handfuls  of  roses  and  heliotrope  to  the 
women,  whose  cries  of  delight,  softened  by  the  water,  fell 
like  music  on  the  air. 

"Take  mine,  please,  Carissima!  " 

Pam  had  made  a  great  bunch  of  heliotrope  and  was  press- 
ing it  into  the  actress's  hands. 

"  It  is  so  sweet;  it  makes  one  dizzy  with  joy!  I  wish  I 
could  die  with  smelling  it  too  much !  "  the  child  cried,  and 
Ravaglia  fastened  the  offering  to  her  gown  with  a  big 
jewelled  pin. 

The  bit  of  purple  sweetness  in  his  button-hole  seemed  to 
the  steward  an  order  that  joined  him  to  the  community  of 
careless  people  he  so  enjoyed.  He  was  not  an  old,  hard- 
working business-man;  he  was  any  age  he  chose  to  be,  and 
the  world  was  full  of  beauty. 

They  breakfasted  in  a  shadowy  hollow  in  the  woods,  and 
when  they  had  gone  on  a  little  farther,  leaving  the  servants 
to  clear  away  the  debris  of  the  meal,  they  all  sat  or  lay 
down,  and  Ravaglia  recited  to  them. 

What  it  was  all  about  Cazalet  had  no  idea,  but  the 
magic  of  her  wonderful  voice  was  enough  for  the  old  man, 
who  closed  his  eyes  and  dreamed  of  things  he  had  never 
known. 

Pauline  and  Sacheverel  sat  together,  her,  golden  head 
resting  frankly  on  his  shoulder,  while  the  fat  little  count 
and  his  wife  listened  hand  in  hand. 

There  was  no  decent  English  reserve,  but  Cazalet  was 
not  shocked.  It  was  Arcadia! 


26  ~  PAM 

"  Don't  you  want  to  know  what  she  said  ?  " 

It  was  Pam  who  had  crept  up  to  Cazalet.  "  You  don't 
understand  Italian,  do  you?" 

"  No.     I  don't  understand " 

The  child  rose.  "  I  will  tell  you ;  I  have  heard  it  before 
and  have  put  it  into  English." 

The  others  watched  her  with  lazy  amusement  as  she 
began,  her  thin  little  body  well-balanced,  her  eyes  half 
closed  in  close  imitation  of  the  artiste,  but  Cazalet,  as  she 
continued,  felt  the  rosy  mists  that  had  folded  him  being 
rent  as  by  a  strong  rough  hand. 

" — and  your  mouth  it  is  crimson  like  a  pomegranate  flower, 
Sweet  as  honey  on  Hymettus's  fragrant  slopes, 
And  bitter  as  sea-salt's  edge — " 

There  was  an  attempt  at  rhythm  in  the  rough  translation. 

"  Catch  me  then  close  to  your  heart  whose  throbs 
Break  like  great  waves  on  mine; 
Blind  my  eyes  with  your  stinging  hair,  and  forget 
With  me  all  but  just  that;  the  beat  of  the  blood, 
The  burn  of  the  kits, " 

"Bravo!" 

"  Bravissima,  Pam !  " 

Cazalet  rose,  his  wrinkled  face  red. 

"  Pam,  come  with  me  and  show  me  the  monastery,"  he 
said  hurriedly,  conscious  of  his  own  confusion,  and  angry 
with  everybody,  the  child  herself  included. 

"  No,  no.  I  want  her  to  do  '  Le  Passionale,'  "  laughed 
Pauline. 

Sacheverel  looked  at  the  steward. 

"  You're  right,  Mr.  Cazalet,"  he  said ;  "the  convent  is 
very  interesting.  Go,  Pam."  And  Cazalet  drew  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

A»   they  went  up   the  sandy   road   to   the   low  building 


P  AM  27 

against  the  sky  line,  the  old  man  was  bitterly  ashamed  of 
himself.  How  he  had  been  drawn  into  the  whirlpool! 

He  would  get  back  to  England  as  quickly  as  possible  and 
tell  his  lordship  and  Mrs.  Maxse  all  about  it;  all  about 
Pam. 

Surely  they  would  not  let  the  child,  after  all,  their  own 
flesh  and  blood,  stay  where  she  was.  It  was  impossible. 

He  sighed.  He  would  have  a  bad  half  hour  with  his 
lordship. 

"  Don't  you  like  to  hear  me  recite,  Mr.  Cazalet?"  asked 
the  child  curiously,  as  they  walked  hand  in  hand  past  a 
garden  in  which  a  busy  monk  was  digging. 

"  I'd  rather  see  you  playing  with  a  doll,  my  dear." 

"Would  you?  I  had  a  doll  when  I  was  small;  M.  de 
Sant'  Anna's  dog  ate  it." 

"Dear  me!  But  surely  you  have  had  others?"  queried 
the  old  man,  surprised  at  the  fierce  note  in  her  voice. 

She  turned,  her  eyes  veiled  with  unshed  tears. 

"  I  never  wanted  another,"  she  said.  "  Ah !  there  is 
Pater  Demetrio.  He  will  be  glad  to  see  me." 

Cazalet  knew  that  she  had  changed  the  subject  on  pur- 
pose, and  said  no  more  about  the  doll. 


CHAPTER  V 


LORD  YEOLAND  sat  on  the  north  terrace  in  his  wheel- 
chair. It  was  a  charming  windless  summer  morning,  and 
from  where  the  old  man  sat  everything  was  green;  the 
beautiful  sappy  green  of  England.  Even  the  walls  of  the 
red  house  were  hung  with  vines,  and  the  terrace  was  gar- 
landed with  oaks  and  beeches.  A  distant  clock  struck 
eleven,  and  Lord  Yeoland  raised  his  head  sharply.  Caza- 
let  had  said  eleven,  and  he  was  always  prompt.  It  was  a 
good  quality,  a  most  excellent  quality — in  others.  No  Yeo- 
land had  ever  possessed  it,  as  the  old  man  acknowledged  to 
himself  with  a  chuckle,  but  in  others  he  had  found  it 
invaluable. 

There  was  little  of  the  stern  father  of  fiction  in  Lord 
Yeoland.  In  spite  of  his  gout  he  was  still  young-looking 
for  his  years,  and  his  carefully  shaven  pink  face  was  round 
and  dimpled. 

It  had  been  a  great  blow  to  him  when  his  favourite 
daughter  had  informed  him  that  she  was  going  off  with 
Guy  Sacheverel,  but  he  had  no  long  line  of  spotless  women- 
kind  behind  him  to  whose  ashes  he  burnt  incense  and  whose 
ghosts  6arred  the  way  to  forgiveness.  All  the  Yeoland 
women  were  easy-going  as  to  morals  and,  as  the  men  had 
most  of  them  been  successful  in  whatever  kind  of  life  they 
had  chosen,  the  doings  of  the  women  were  less  important 
than  they  might  have  been.  Pauline  would  have  been  wel- 
come to  Sacheverel  as  a  husband,  for  the  fellow  was  great  in 
his  line,  and  a  charming  person,  but  her  going  to  him  in 

28 


P  AM  29 

defiance  of  everything  as  she  had  done  was  rather  too  much, 
even  for  a  Yeoland,  and  her  father  had  cast  her  off  in  the 
approved  style. 

The  Kennedy  woman  had  come  to  see  him  and  wept. 
Though  rather  pretty  she  was  an  unattractive  person,  and 
her  nose  was  glossy;  he  had  tried  to  persuade  her  that  her 
most  dignified  course  was  to  divorce  her  husband.  This, 
however,  she  flatly  refused  to  do,  and  finding  that  Lord 
Yeoland  could  not  overtake  and  shut  up  his  destructive 
daughter,  retired  to  her  suburb  and  was  no  more  heard  of. 

Rosamund — the  old  man's  clever  mouth  gave  a  humorous 
twist  as  he  thought  of  his  other  daughter;  Rosamund  was 
that  exception  to  the  rule — a  virtuous  Yeoland;  and  she 
was  a  good,  tender  daughter,  a  devout  churchwoman,  a 
loyal  wife,  a  careful  mother. 

But  she  had  white  eyelashes  and  no  sense  of  humour. 
Pauline  had  not  been  gone  six  months  before  her  father,  un- 
known to  every  one,  wrote  offering  to  forgive  and  take  her 
back  if  she  would  give  up  Sacheverel. 

This  she  refused  to  do,  and  he  recognised  in  her  brief 
letter  a  happiness  so  complete  that  she  hardly  remembered 
things  that  lay  behind  and  beyond  it. 

One  day  in  Paris  he  had  passed  her  leaning  on  Sacheverel's 
arm,  and — she  had  not  seen  him!  So  he  had  given  up 
hoping  for  her  return.  Once  or  twice  he  had  written  to 
her.  She  had  answered  with  absent-minded  amiability,  and 
that  was  all.  And  now  Cazalet  was  bringing  her  child  to 
him! 

Poor  Cazzy,  who  had  believed  him  as  implacable  as  he 
should  have  been,  and  who  had  been  pale  with  fright  as  he 
told  the  tale  of  his  flight  into  Arcadia! 

It  had  amused  the  old  man  to  feign  the  expected  anger, 
and  to  allow  the  good  steward  to  persuade  him  by  much 
earnest  eloquence  to  take  the  unfortunate  child. 


30  P  AM 

At  last  he  had  consented,  Mrs.  Maxse  had  positively 
jumped  at  the  chance  to  do  a  good  work,  and — it  was  a 
quarter-past  eleven,  and — yes,  there  they  came! 

Cazalet,  when  he  had  shown  the  child  her  grandfather's 
solitary  figure,  discreetly  retired,  and  she  came  on  alone. 
She  walked  well,  erect,  and  as  though  the  muscles  of  her 
legs  and  feet  were  strong.  Her  dark  frock  and  white  sailor 
hat  suited  her. 

Her  monkey  in  her  arms,  she  came  deliberately  up  the 
steps,  neither  slowly  nor  fast,  and  when  she  had  reached 
her  grandfather  held  out  her  small  gloved  hand  with  a 
quiet  air  that  surprised  him. 

"How  do  you  do,  my  dear?"  he  said  kindly.  "I  am 
very  glad  to  see  you." 

"  I  am  quite  well,  thank  you." 

Her  dark  eyes,  shadowed  by  unusually  long  and  silky 
lashes,  were  her  only  beauty,  he  noticed.  Her  nose  was 
rather  round  and  her  mouth  too  large. 

"  You  are  not  much  like  your  mother." 

"  No,  I  am  like  my  father." 

"  Your  father  was  a  very  handsome  man,  my  dear." 

"  He  is  still  a  very  handsome  man ;  and  I  am  ugly,  you 
mean?  I  am  at  the  ugly  age." 

The  old  man  burst  out  laughing.  "  Are  you  indeed ! 
Well,  let  us  hope  you  will  improve.  You  are  ten,  Cazalet 
tells  me." 

"  Yes." 

"  That  is  a  monkey  ?  " 

Her  eyes  twinkled.     "  No,  it  is  a  humming  bird !  " 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  reprove  her,  and  when  he  had 
done  laughing  he  continued :  "  I  have  heard  nothing  at  all 
about  you  since  your  birth." 

Cazzy  had  told  him  of  her  quaint  remarks,  and  he  was 
trying  to  draw  her  out. 


P  AM  31 

"I  suppose  not.'     He  was  disappointed. 

"Why  do  you  suppose  not?  Why  should  she  not  tell 
me  about  you?  " 

"  I  mean — because  you  hate  her." 

He  started.  "  Hate  her!  Nonsense.  Who  told  you 
that?" 

"  Pilgrim  told  me." 

"Pilgrim?    Who  is  he?" 

"  Jane  Pilgrim,  my  mother's  maid.  She  is  my  nurse  now, 
and  I  brought  her  here." 

"  Indeed !      I  should  have  thought  that  she  brought  you." 

"  Servants  do  not  bring  ladies.  May  I  have  a  bath, 
please?" 

Her  change  of  theme  was  intentional,  he  saw;  she  had 
had  enough  of  Pilgrim. 

"  If  you  will  ring  the  bell  just  inside  that  door — to  the 
right,  you  may  have  as  many  baths  as  you  please.  When 
you  are  dressed,  come  to  my  room.  I  wish  to  present  your 
aunt  to  you." 

"  You  are  laughing  at  me  because  I  said  that  about  Pil- 
grim. One  doesn't  present  grown  people  to  children." 
Then  her  sombre  eyes  suddenly  flashed,  and  she  burst  out 
laughing.  "  I  am  glad  I  came,"  she  exclaimed.  "  I'm  sure 
we  shall  be  great  friends.  I  am  exactly  like  you  in  some 


ways 


A  few  minutes  later  he  returned  to  the  subject  of  her 
bath,  and,  shaking  hands  once  more  with  him,  she  went  into 
the  house. 

When  she  had  disappeared  Lord  Yeoland  steered  his  chair 
down  the  terrace,  into  the  billiard-room,  through  a  long  cor- 
ridor, to  a  lift  in  which  he  mounted  to  the  second  floor,  and 
a  few  minutes  later  knocked  at  his  daughter's  door. 

Mrs.  Maxse  was  writing, 

"Ah,  father!" 


32  P  AM 

Rising,  she  waited  until  he  had  manoeuvred  his  chair 
into  his  favourite  corner  by  the  window,  and  then  sat 
down  by  him. 

"Well— she  has  come?" 

"Yes.     She  is  interesting." 

"  Poor  child.     It  is  very  sad  for  her." 

The  old  man  laid  his  delicate  finger  tips  together  and 
looked  at  her  with  pleasant  authority.  "  Now,  Rosamund, 
I  wish  you  to  understand  that  I  will  not  have  her  pitied. 
She  is  very  amusing  and  original,  and  I  don't  wish  you  to 
spoil  her." 

"  Spoil  her!     But  I  had  no  idea  of  such  a  thing." 

"  We  use  the  word  in  different  ways.  You  may  kiss  her 
and  pet  her  as  much  as  she  will  let  you,"  he  added  with  a 
little  laugh,  "  but  I  won't  have  her  wept  over  or  com- 
passionated with.  She  knows  that  most  people's  father  and 
mother  are  married,  and  that  hers  are  not ;  but  that,  Cazalet 
tells  me,  she  regards  merely  as  an  interesting  peculiarity.  It 
appears  that — h'm! — Pauline  and  the  fellow  are  very  happy, 
so  that  the  child  has  always  been  happy  too." 
"Happy!  Poor  Pauline!" 

The  elder  sister  drew  a  deep  sigh,  and  her  plain  red  face 
paled  a  little. 

"  Yes,  my  dear.  All  these  years,  while  you  have  been 
lamenting  over  and  praying  for  your  lost  sister,  she  has 
been  living  in  Arcadia.  The  villa  is  named  Villa  Arcadie, 
it  seems.  Cazalet  says  she  looks  very  handsome,  and  that 
she  and  Sacheverel  are  utterly  devoted  to  each  other." 

"Oh,  father!"  Mrs.  Maxse's  dull,  gentle  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  "  How  awful  it  is!  " 

"  I  disagree  with  you,  Rosamund.  As  long  as  she  chose 
to  give  up  everything  for  the  one  man,  I  am  glad  she  finds 
that  she  has  got,  so  to  say,  her  money's  worth.  Cazalet 
tells  me  that  coming  home  in  the  evening  on  the  yacht 


P  AM  33 

Sacheverel  sang;  he  says  that  he  never  dreamed  of  such 
music.  I  must  confess,"  he  added,  after  a  short  pause,  "  that 
I  regret  that  my  position  denies  me  the  pleasure  of — a  visit 
to  Arcadia." 

Mrs.  Maxse,  who  had  carefully  guarded  during  all  those 
years  the  secret  of  her  father's  real  attitude  towards  his 
erring  daughter,  sighed.  She  had,  long  ago,  made  an  at- 
tempt to  lead  the  sinner  back  to  the  path  of  righteousness, 
but  it  had  ended  by  Pauline,  in  a  towering  rage,  having 
requested  her  to  leave  the  room,  and  since  then  the  poor 
woman,  honestly  mourning  her  sister,  and  sincerely  praying 
for  the  pardon  which  she  believed  to  be  impossible,  had 
heard  nothing  of  her. 

"Has  she — been  taught  anything?"  she  asked  after  a 
pause. 

"  Pauline?  Oh,  the  child.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  She 
will  be  coming  to  my  room  shortly,  to  meet  you.  Where's 
Ratty?" 

"  Riding." 

"Where's  Dick?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I  haven't  seen  him  this  morning." 

"  He's  in  debt  again." 

She  clasped  her  hands  nervously.  "  I  know.  Oh,  father, 
I  am  so  ashamed!  " 

"  You  needn't  be,  my  dear.  It  is  not  your  fault.  Nor 
is  it  on  you "  He  broke  off.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Rosa- 
mund." 

She  rose.  "  As  the  child  Pamela  is  going  to  my  room, 
had  we  not  better  go  down  ?  " 


CHAPTER  VI 


W^HEN  Pam  had  been  inspected  by  her  aunt  she  was  told 
by  her  grandfather  to  go  out  and  take  a  look  at  things. 

"  You  will  see  everything  much  more  satisfactorily  by 
yourself,"  the  old  man  added.  "  People  who  show  their 
possessions  and  surroundings  to  a  stranger  are  always  biassed, 
and  they  bias  and  bore  the  stranger." 

Mrs.  Maxse  sighed.  Her  father's  ways  were  to  her  to 
this  day  the  ways  of  an  unknown  being,  their  natures  being 
so  unlike  as  to  utterly  forbid  even  a  moderate  understanding 
of  each  other,  although  half  unconsciously  the  poor  little 
woman  realised  that  her  view  of  him,  like  that  of  the  tor- 
toise of  the  hawk,  was  less  comprehensive  than  his,  as  he 
looked  down,  of  her. 

"  Ratty  would  love  to  show  Pamela  the  place,"  she 
ventured. 

"  Which  is  really,"  interrupted  Lord  Yeoland,  "  why  I'm 
sending  her  now,  before  Ratty  comes.  Cut  along,  Pam." 

And  Pam  cut  along.  She  had  seen  deer  browsing  in  the 
distance  as  she  had  been  driven  up  the  avenue,  and  deer  had 
for  her  the  charm  they  always  have  for  imaginative  child- 
hood. 

Crossing  the  square  hall  she  went  out  into  the  old- 
fashioned  portico  and  walked  slowly  across  the  lawn. 

The  dimpled  hollows  of  the  park,  filled  with  waving  lights 
and  shadows,  were  most  beautiful.  It  was  very  different 
from  Italy. 

The  flower-beds,  a  blaze  of  well-massed  colour,  were 

34 


PAM  35 

more  gorgeous  than  any  she  had  ever  seen,  and  the  splendour 
of  old  oaks,  each  one  a  personality,  was  not  wasted  on  the 
child,  whose  quick  eyes  saw  everything  and  whose  quick 
brain  was  appreciative  in  spite  of  her  quite  unusual  ig- 
norance. 

In  the  middle  of  the  lawn  she  paused,  and,  turning,  her 
hands  clasped  behind  her,  inspected  the  house. 

The  body  of  it  was  ugly,  early  Georgian,  solid,  preten- 
tious, and  ponderous  in  its  lines,  but  to  the  left  was  a  wing 
of  Tudor  architecture,  beautiful  in  its  ivy-clad  age,  and  to 
the  right,  separated  by  a  graceful  arch,  through  which,  ex- 
tending thus  between  it  and  the  main  building,  stretched  a 
walk  of  perfect  turf,  edged  writh  graceful  limes,  stood  the 
ruins  of  the  old  monastery  from  which  the  place  took  its 
name. 

The  ruins,  deftly  propped  and  strengthened,  were  among 
the  oldest  in  that  part  of  England,  and  their  ragged  lines, 
sharply  drawn  against  the  sky  and  the  green  of  the  limes, 
contrasted  oddly  with  the  solid  comfort  of  the  house  itself. 

Again  to  the  right,  beyond  the  bit  of  crumbling  wall  that 
marked  where  the  chapel  had  been,  a  square  carp  pond 
gleamed  in  the  midst  of  all  the  greenness. 

The  little  girl  sighed  with  delight.  It  was  all  very 
splendid,  and  she  was  the  grand-daughter  of  its  owner. 

She  would  go  up  into  the  tower  some  day;  there  was 
sure  to  be  a  nook  where  she  could  hide  with  a  book  from 
the  boy  Ratty,  of  whom  her  grandfather  and  her  aunt  had 
several  times  spoken,  and  who  was  bound  to  be  objec- 
tionable. 

In  the  meantime  that  surely  was  a  deer,  stepping  daintily 
through  the  distant  trees.  Shifting  Caliban  to  her  other 
shoulder,  she  walked  on.  An  hour  later,  her  hands  still 
behind  her,  she  entered  the  monastery  ruins  and,  sitting 
down  in  the  refectory,  drew  a  long  breath.  The  narrow 


36  P  AM 

windows  let  in  but  little  sun,  and  the  vast  place  was  dusky, 
even  at  noon,  for  in  its  midst  grew  a  great  oak,  and  where 
so  long  ago  the  monks'  sandalled  feet  had  trod  acorns 
rested  in  thick  grass. 

The  child  looked  up  at  the  great  tree  and  wondered  how 
old  it  was.  It  must  be,  according  to  her  simple  lore,  at 
least  four  hundred  years,  in  which  case  the  monks  must 
have  lived  longer  ago  than  that.  She  imagined  them,  as 
she  knew  monks  in  Italy,  burly  brown-faced  men  in  rough 
woollen  frocks.  She  imagined  a  long  table  with  pewter 
plates  and  thick  glasses  of  oily  black  wine;  in  the  niche 
where  she  sat  at  the  end  of  the  room  had  sat,  no  doubt,  the 
reading  brother  behind  his  desk  and  read  aloud  to  the  others 
while  they  broke  their  fast. 

She  wondered  if  they  had  said  "Memento  morl"  to 
each  other,  and  gave  a  little  shiver.  She  was  beginning  to 
feel  them. 

From  behind  the  oak  she  could  almost  see  the  face  of 
a  young  monk  who  sometimes  had  come  to  the  villa — 
Padre  Ignazio.  She  had  liked  him,  for  he  had  handsome 
grey  eyes  and  strong  white  teeth  that  flashed. 

"  And  when  they  had  eaten  everything,"  she  thought, 
"they  all  said  an  Ave  together;  'Ave  Maria'" 

Suddenly  she  rose,  and  setting  down  the  monkey  took 
off  her  hat  and  pulled  from  her  hair  the  three  big  pins 
that  fastened  it  to  her  crown. 

The  heavy  mass  waving  down  over  her  dark  frock  hung 
like  a  cowl,  hiding  her  ears  and  her  shoulders.  She  was  a 
monk.  And  she  was  not  only  a  monk  of  five  hundred 
years  ago,  but  she  was  beautiful  young  Father  Ignatius 
translated  backwards  to  that  period. 

She  felt  her  eyebrows  assume  the  patient  curve  of  his;  she 
felt  her  teeth  flash  under  a  budding  moustache. 

"  'Ave  Maria,  gratia  plena — 


P  AM  37 

Her  voice,  full  and  slightly  veiled  like  Ravaglia's,  deep- 
ened as  she  went  on,  and  she  heard  her  brethren  join  her 
prayer  which  turned  to  Italian  as  she  continued: 

"  '  Sancta  Maria,  Mater  Dei,  ora  pro  nobis '  " — her  eyes 
were  full  of  tears  and  her  voice  shook — "  '  et  in  hora  mortis 

nostrae.'     What  a  terrible,  cold,  black  word,  'mortis!' — 

r  i  .  ) » 

la  morte. 

11 1  say,  you  are  a  queer  one." 

The  reincarnation  of  the  Reading  Brother  gave  a  great 
start,  and  then  a  cool  laugh. 

"Am  I?  I  suppose  you're  Ratty?  Well,  Ratty,  you 
are  too  fat  for  your  size,  and  I  hate  white  mice,  so  don't 
come  any  nearer,  please." 

The  boy,  who  was  coming  slowly  towards  her,  stopped. 
The  sensation  of  having  the  tables  turned  completely  on 
one  is  never  quite  pleasant,  and  possibly  it  is  never  less  so 
than  when  one  is  a  male  creature  of  thirteen  much  spoiled 
by  prosperity,  and  the  turner  merely  a  girl,  and  three  years 
younger  than  one's  self. 

"  I  shan't  come  any  nearer,"  the  boy  returned  sulkily ; 
"  and  if  I'm  too  fat,  you  are  a  precious  lot  too  thin,  let  me 
tell  you.  You're  Aunt  Pauline's  daughter.  Grandfather 
told  me  you  were  prowling  about." 

"  I  wasn't  prowling.     How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  Thirteen  and  a  half."  Ratty  had  fully  intended  taking 
and  keeping  the  upper  hand  of  this  person,  inferior  from 
every  point  of  view,  as  it  seemed  to  him;  but  somehow  he 
found  himself  answering  her  rapid  fire  of  questions  in  an 
inexplicably  meek  way.  Afterwards  he  explained  his  atti- 
tude to  himself  by  calling  it  that  of  politeness,  which  has 
occurred  before. 

"  What's  your  real  name  ?  " 

"De   Rattrec  Gilbert  Yeoland   Maxse." 

"  Anc  -qu  live  here  ?  " 


38  P  AM 

"  Yes." 

"Any  brothers  or  sisters?" 

"  One ;  a  sister.     I  say,  is  the  monkey  yours  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  don't  touch  him  please.  What's  her  name,  and 
how  old  is  she?  " 

While  the  boy  answered  that  her  name  was  Evelyn  and 
that  she  was  eleven,  Pam  rolled  her  hair  into  a  long  rope, 
and,  bending  her  head,  coiled  the  rope  into  its  usual  place. 
Then  pinning  on  her  hat  she  remarked  casually:  "Well, 
I'm  hungry,  so  it  must  be  luncheon  time.  Good-bye." 

But  Ratty,  with  all  the  male's  usual  desire  for  what 
seems  to  be  turning  inaccessible,  pocketed  his  mice  and 
joined  her. 

"  I'm  hungry  too.     I  say,  what  a  lot  of  hair  you  have!  " 

Pam  looked  at  him  out  of  the  ends  of  her  eyes,  scorning 
the  tribute  of  a  turned  head.  "  Yes,  it  is  very  beautiful 
hair,  but  it  is  heavy." 

"  I  suppose  that  is  why  you  wear  it  done  up  at  your  age." 

"  Partly  that,  and  partly  because  if  I  let  it  hang  things 
would  get  in  it  and  it  would  have  to  be  cut  off." 

"  Well,  if  it  did  ?  You'd  be  much  more  comfortable 
with  a  short  mane  like  Evelyn." 

Then  she  turned.  "  I'd  die  if  my  hair  was  cut  off,  de 
Rattrec  Gilbert  Yeoland  Maxse ! "  she  said  with  passionate 
solemnity.  "I'd  die,  do  you  hear?" 

The  boy  stared  at  her  curiously,  but  the  passivity  of  those 
born  fat  and  destined  to  live  and  die  fat  was  his. 

After  a  moment  he  asked,  "  What  were  you  doing  there 
in  the  refectory  ?  " 

"Did  you  like  it?" 

"  Like  it  ?     How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Her  eyes  flashed  at  him.  "  I  mean,  wasn't  it  splendid, 
the  '  hora  mortis  nostras '  ?  I  never  got  down  so  deep 
before." 


P  AM  39 

"  It  sounded  like  a  bass-viol,  if  that's  what  you  mean," 
he  returned,  rather  meaning,  in  a  weak  way,  to  be  offensive, 
but  to  her  surprise  she  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck 
and  gave  him  a  hasty  but  grateful  kiss.  "Did  it?  Oh, 
I  am  glad.  You  are  a  nice  boy,  even  if  you  are  fat.  I'll 
do  a  lovely  one  for  you  after  lunch — a  poem,  I  mean." 

They  had   reached  the  portico,  and  she  stopped  shot' 
with  a  dramatic  wave  of  her  hand.     "  But  you  don't  speak 
Italian,"  she  cried.     "  It  is  a  pity — but  I  will  learn  some 
English  ones  1 " 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE  days  passed  by,  and  Pam  hardly  noticed  their  flight. 
She  was  not  at  all  homesick,  and  once  when  Mrs.  Maxse 
asked  her  if  she  did  not  miss  her  mother  the  child  answered, 
"  No,  but  I  am  afraid  she  will  miss  me." 

"  Why  should  she  miss  you  if  you  don't  miss  her?  " 

"  Because — I  take  care  of  her.  I  brush  her  hair  always, 
and  I  rub  her  wrists  when  she  can't  sleep,  and  so  on.  I 
don't  miss  her,  because  I  am  amused;  one  is  homesick  only 
when  one  is  lonely." 

Poor  Rosamund  Maxse  sighed. 

"  I  hope  Evelyn  would  miss  me  if  she  were  away,"  she  said. 

Pam  flashed  a  queer  look  at  her. 

"  Of  course  she  would ;  that  is  different.  You  don't 
love  Mr.  Maxse,  so  of  course  you  love  her  more  than  mother 
loves  me." 

"  Pamela!  I'm — you  mustn't  say  such  things,"  cried  the 
poor  woman.  "  Of  course  I  love  Mr.  Maxse !  " 

"  I  don't  think  you  do.     I  don't  call  it  love.     Now  father 

and  mother "    She  broke  off,  gazing  thoughtfully  out  of 

the  window. 

"  But  if  they  love  each  other  so  much,  I  don't  see  why 
you  say  Pauline  should  miss  you  so,"  went  on  Mrs.  Maxse, 
feeling  that  she  was  being  undignified  in  arguing  with  the- 
child,  and  yet  urged  on  in  spite  of  herself. 

Pam  laughed. 

"That  isn't  love;  it's  comfort.  And  she  likes  my  lov- 
ing her." 

40 


P  AM  4i 

Rosamund  again  could  not  resist;  something  in  the  child 
seemed  to  lead  her  on  against  her  will.  "  Then  you  do  love 
her?  "  she  asked. 

Pam  turned.  "  Do  I  love  her?  Do  I  love  her?  And 
you  are  her  own  sister !  "  The  scorn  in  her  voice,  instead 
of  irritating  Mrs.  Maxse,  suddenly  appeased  her. 

"  I  know,"  she  said  humbly  enough.  "  It  was  always 
that  way  with  Pauline.  I  used  to  wonder  why  it  was,  for 
it  was  not  only  her  beauty.  There  were  other  girls  as 
beautiful  as  she,  but  it  was  for  her  that  the  sacrifices  were 
made.  Beginning  with  Jimmy  Leslie  and  ending,  so  far 
as  we  know,"  she  went  on,  "  with  poor  Jane.  I  have  often 
wondered  about  it,  for  she  did  not  care  much  for  them" 

"  I  know  what  it  is.     It's  her  temperament." 

Poor  Rosamund,  who  had  no  idea  of  what  temperament 
was,  but  vaguely  believed  it  to  be  something  bad  and  un- 
speakable, gave  a  nervous  start.  "  My  dear  child !  What 
words  you  do  use !  " 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  insisted  Pam,  with  civil  obstinacy.  "  It 
is  that.  Comte  de  Vaucourt  said  so." 

"  Comte  who  ?  And  to  whom  ?  Surely  he  didn't  talk 
about  such  things  to  you !  " 

"  No.  He  was  talking  to  Madame  Ravaglia  one  day 
in  the  garden  when  we  first  knew  her.  She  was  asking 
him  some  things  about  father.  She  knew,  of  course,  that 
he  was  an  artist,  and,  as  it  appears  that  artists  do  not  often 
love  one  person  for  long  at  a  time,  she  said  that  she  was 
surprised  that  father  still  cared  for  mother." 

"  Oh !  "  gasped  her  aunt. 

"  And  M.  de  Vaucourt,"  pursued  the  child  serenely,  "  said 
that  he  explained  it  by  the  fact  of  mother's  having  a  devil 
of  a  temperament.  It  sounds  worse  in  English,  somehow," 
she  added  apologetically,  "  but  '  le  diable '  is  really  nothing, 
you  know." 


42  PAM 

A  burst  of  masculine  laughter  interrupted  her,  and  Dick 
Maxse  issued  from  behind  the  portiere,  his  good-looking 
face  red  with  suppressed  mirth. 

"  '  A  devil  of  a  temperament/ "  he  quoted,  his  hands 
in  his  trousers  pockets,  grinning  down  at  his  wife's  niece, 
"I  believe  you!" 

"Dick!" 

"  Well,  of  course  she  has,  my  dear.  I  once  wanted  to 
marry  your  mother  myself,"  he  added,  turning  to  Pam. 
"  How  would  you  have  liked  me  for  your  father?  " 

"  That  is  perfectly  impossible,"  she  answered  coldly,  "  for 
I  am  half  of  my  own  father,  and  if  I'd  been  half  of  you  I'd 
have  been — well — very  different !  " 

Maxse  giggled,  and  lit  a  cigarette.  "  Well,  how  would 
you  have  been,  if  you  were  half  of  me?"  he  asked. 
"  Would  you  have  had  my  beautiful  mouth,  do  you  think?  " 

"  It  was  disgusting  of  Ratty  to  tell  you  I  said  that,"  the 
girl  burst  out  angrily,  rising,  "  and  I  thought  so  only  at 
first.  I  hate  your  mouth,  and  if  you  ever  try  to  kiss  me 
again  I'll  bite  you." 

He  glanced  uneasily  at  his  wife,  and  gave  a  nervous 
laugh. 

"You're  a  rude  little  beggar,"  he  commented,  but  Pam, 
without  waiting  to  hear  his  remark,  had  marched  out,  slam- 
ming the  door. 

As  she  went  downstairs  she  heard  footsteps  behind  her, 
and  turning,  saw  Cazalet. 

"  Oh,  Cazzy,  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  Where  have  you 
been?" 

"  With  his  lordship,  my  dear.     What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

His  kind  eyes  had  at  once  noted  the  unusual  red  in  her 
cheeks,  and  red  with  Pam  was  always  a  danger  signal. 

"  I  have  been  rude  again  to  Mr.  Maxse,  but  I  do  hate 
him  so.  He  makes  my  flesh  creep,  nasty  jelly-fish !  " 


P  AM  43 

Cazalet  suppressed  a  laugh  that  was  not  entirely  without 
the  element  of  pleasure. 

"  Be  careful,  my  dear!  " 

"  Well,  he  is.  Father  is  twice  as  big,  yet  father  is  as 
hard  as  iron,  and  Mr.  Maxse  looks  as  if  he'd  collapse  if  you 
pricked  him.  Bah!" 

There  was  something  unchildlike  in  her  dislike  of  her 
aunt's  husband,  and  Cazalet  realised  it.  "  He  is  considered 
handsome,"  he  observed  mildly,  as  they  came  out  into  the 
sun,  where  his  little  dog-cart  was  waiting  for  him.  Pam 
got  in  without  asking  leave  and  he  drove  off. 

"  I  know.  He's  handsome — but  I  hate  him.  He  kissed 
me  one  day,"  she  added  half  amusedly,  "  and  I  nearly 
put  his  eye  out.  I  only  meant  to  scratch  him,  but  he 
wriggled." 

Cazalet  did  not  laugh.  It  had  come  to  seem  to  him 
his  duty  to  preserve  as  best  he  could  this  wild  vine  planted 
by  his  advice  in  the  home  soil.  "  You  are  too  big  to  scratch 
people,"  he  said  seriously. 

"  Then  I'm  too  big  to  be  kissed,"  was  her  prompt 
reply. 

They  drove  down  the  long  avenue,  past  the  lodge,  and  out 
into  the  sunny  high-road. 

"  I  am  coming  to  tea,"  Pam  remarked  at  length.  "  I 
haven't  been  for  a  long  time." 

"  Did  you  tell  any  one?  " 

"  No,  but  they  won't  be  anxious.  They  are  used  to  my 
being  late.  All  Yeolands  are  unpunctual,  my  G.  F.  says, 
and  when  I  am  later  than  usual  they  send  for  Pilgrim,  and 
she  tells  them  how  much  worse  I  used  to  be,  and  that  con- 
soles them." 

"  Well,  it  appears  to  me  that  you  do  about  as  you  like 
in  most  things." 

They  had  reached  the  turn  in  the  road  and  were  off 


44  P  AM 

between  golden  stubble  fields,  beyond  which  the  little  town 
lay  hidden  in  a  fold  in  the  hills. 

"  I  always  do  what  I  like." 

"Always?    That  is  impossible." 

Their  eyes  met  defiantly.  "  Well — if  I  absolutely  can't, 
then  I  stop  bothering  and  do  some  other  thing  that  I  want 
to."  The  whole  of  philosophy  in  a  nutshell. 

Mrs.  Hamp,  Cazalet's  housekeeper,  was  very  fond  of 
Pam,  and  the  child's  coming  was  the  signal  for  the  pro* 
duction  of  such  wonders  as  damson  jam,  sweet  biscuits, 
and  even  exceedingly  hard  sweets  done  up  in  striped 
paper,  of  which  the  house  was  at  other  times  apparently 
innocent. 

Pam  was  hungry,  and  enjoyed  her  feast  with  child- 
hood's pleasing  greediness. 

Cazalet  watched  her  a  little  wistfully. 

"  Pam,"  he  said  after  a  long  pause,  "  what  do  you  hear 
from  your  mother?" 

"  Nothing  in  particular.  They  are  both  well,  and  father 
has  been  singing  a  great  deal.  Figs  have  begun,  and  Assun- 
tina,  the  farmer's  daughter,  has  twins.  I  wish,"  she  added, 
licking  her  spoon,  "that  I  had  twins." 

"  Bless  me!     Well,  perhaps  you  may,  some  day." 

Mrs.  Hamp,  who  had  come  in  on  some  housewifely  pre- 
text, laughed  heartily.  "  Perhaps  your  husband  might  not 
be  pleased,  though,  Miss  Pam.  The  doctor,  poor  dear  gen- 
tleman, was  very  much  put  out  the  last  time — 

"  I  am  not  going  to  have  a  husband." 

"Well,  really!  Now  what  a  young  lady  you  are,  to  be 
sure!  There's  no  danger  of  your  being  an  old  maid !  "  ejacu- 
lated the  good  woman  hastily,  to  cover  her  own  and  her 
master's  confusion. 

Pam  laughed. 

"Who  said  I  was  going  to  be  an  old  maid?     Of  course 


P  AM  45 

I  shan't.  I  shall  have  a  lover,  and  he  will  adore  me,  as 
father  adores  mother;  but  marriage  is  a  betise" 

Poor  Mrs.  Hamp  left  the  room  overcome. 

"  Imagine  me  being  an  old  maid!  "  remarked  Pam,  helping 
herself  to  damson  jam. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


ONE  of  the  advantages  of  being  a  nomad  is  that  one  has 
almost  literally  no  social  duties. 

One  camps  for  a  time  where  one  likes,  setting  up  one's 
movable  Lares  and  Penates  in  strange  nooks  whose  strange- 
ness gives  no  shock;  the  sofa-pillows  are  brought  out  to  deck 
a  new  corner;  the  vases  filled  with  new  flowers  have  a  charm 
of  their  own  in  their  familiarity  that  prosy,  stay-at-home 
porcelain  does  not  know. 

All  these  things,  provided  that  the  one  person  who  counts 
is  there  too,  wearing  in  Petersburg  the  little  red  slippers 
you  bought  her  that  day  in  Cairo,  or  with  the  back  of  his 
dear  head  leaning  comfortably,  in  Palermo,  against  the  pil- 
low you  embroidered  for  him  in  Christiania.  Guy  Sach- 
everel  and  Pauline  Yeoland  knew  these  things,  and  while 
they  had  made  Villa  Arcadie  the  home  nest  into  which  they 
dropped  after  all  their  flights,  they  had  travelled  a  great  deal 
in  the  careless  bohemian  way  that  Pauline,  in  spite  of  her 
birth,  seemed  to  understand  better  than  he.  His  bohemian- 
ism  was  that  of  habit,  little  bourgeois  as  he  had  been  born  ; 
hers  was  that  of  the  heart  and  soul. 

"The  third  day  of  rain,  Guy!  Can  the  summer  really 
be  gone  ?  " 

"  It  looks  that  way,  dearest.    What  shall  we  do  ?  " 

"  Go  somewhere ;  anywhere,  where  the  sun  shines,  or 
where  it  is  a  real  decent  winter,  with  snow  and  bells." 

And  in  a  day  or  two  off  they  would  go,  accompanied  by 
grim  Pilgrim  and  the  child,  who  thus  was  quite  used  to 
strange  quarters  and  wagon-lits,  and  to  whom  the  charm  of 

46 


F  AM  47 

the  unknown  and  unexpected  was  as  great  as  it  was  to  her 
mother. 

Monks'  Yeoland,  with  its  sober  splendour,  so  strongly 
contrasted  by  the  dreamy  beauty  of  the  ruins,  delighted  the 
child. 

It  was  totally  unlike  anything  that  she  had  ever  known. 
She  liked  the  easy-goingness  of  life  in  hotels,  she  liked  the 
plays  and  opera  to  which  Pauline,  feeling  carelessly  that  it 
was  a  pity  for  the  child  to  have  no  amusement,  had  sent  her 
with  Pilgrim;  but  it  pleased  her  to  be  surrounded  by  per- 
fectly drilled  servants,  to  have  a  sitting-room  of  her  own, 
and  her  bath-room  with  its  gleaming  white  tiles  was  a  source 
of  never-ending  delight  to  her. 

All  the  things  that  had  rather  bored  her  mother  touched 
in  the  child  a  chord  that  vibrated  all  through  her  in  its 
responsiveness. 

Even  the  delicious  food  had  its  place  in  the  great  whole 
which  went  to  making  her  so  content.  She  was  frankly 
gourmet,  a  quality  that  her  father  had  given  her,  and  Lord 
Yeoland  was  much  amused  by  her  thoughtful  appreciation 
of  his  viands  and  wine. 

"  Ratty  doesn't  know  claret  from  ginger-beer,"  the  old 
man  said  one  day ;  to  which  the  fat  boy  replied  stoutly :  "  Yes, 
I  do,  grandfather.  And  I  like  ginger-beer  and  loathe  claret ; 
nasty  inky  stuff !  " 

Pam  raised  her  claret-glass  and  looked  at  it  against  the 
light.  "  I  like  it ;  it  is  smooth  and  a  little  sour,  and  I  feel 
as  if  I  were  drinking  rubies,"  she  remarked. 

Dick  Maxse,  who  had  just  come  home  from  a  fortnight 
in  town,  and  looked  very  seedy,  groaned.  "  There  are 
occasions,"  he  said  to  his  father-in-law,  "  when  claret  is  the 
only  wine  a  man  can  look  at." 

"  Quite  so;  have  some  more,  Dick!  " 

Lord  Yeoland's  eyes  twinkled.     Maxse  was  a  scamp,  a 


4C  P  AM 

spendthrift,  and  a  rake,  but  he  had  a  saving  sense  of  humour. 
Pam,  on  the  contrary,  looked  at  the  man  whom  she  had  been 
instructed  to  call  uncle,  and  whom  she  steadfastly  called 
nothing  at  all,  with  the  frank  disgust  that  he  never  failed  to 
bring  to  her  eyes. 

He  looked  up  and  saw  her. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about,  Amelia?  "  he  asked  good- 
humouredly. 

"  My  name  is  not  Amelia,  and  you  know  it." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Well,  Pamela,  of  what  were  you 
thinking?" 

"  Of  you.  I  was  wondering  why  your  eyes  look  so — 
horrid!" 

"  Shut  up,  Pam,  you  are  a  cheeky  little  beggar!  "  The 
children  sat  side  by  side,  and  Ratty  accompanied  his  admoni- 
tion with  a  sharp  kick  under  the  table. 

The  next  moment  he  had  given  a  short  yell,  and  bent  over 
his  plate  in  pain.  "  I'll  teach  you  to  kick  me,  you  little 
canaglia!  "  the  little  girl  cried. 

Mrs.  Maxse  was  not  at  luncheon  that  day,  and  the  two 
men,  both  inclined  to  look  on  the  children  in  the  light  of  a 
God-sent  amusement  for  themselves,  laughed. 

Pam  turned  to  Maxse.  "  If  any  one  had  given  me  such 
a  knock,  my  father  wouldn't  have  laughed,"  she  said.  "  It 
must  have  been  a  fearful  blow." 

"What  would  your  father  have  done?" 

"  He'd  have — whacked  the  person  who  did  it." 

Maxse  watched  her  closely;  he  was  interested  in  her,  for 
in  the  child  he  felt  the  future  woman,  and  she  charmed  him. 
He  would  have  given  considerably  more  than  he  could  afford 
to  have  had  Pam  seven  or  eigh*  vears  older,  for  in  his  way 
he  was  a  student  of  humar.  v.aturc. 

'*  Shan  i — wnacit  you?  " 

Luncheon  was  over  and  they  rose  as  she  spoke. 


P  AM  49 

"  If  you  like ;  but  I  suppose  you're  afraid  I'd  bite  you." 

"  If  you  bite  me  I'll  spank  you." 

He  was  teasing,  but  his  eyes  appealed  still  to  the  woman 
ihe  was  going  to  be.  She  looked  at  him.  "  If  you  spank 
me  I'll — kill  you,"  she  said  slowly. 

For  answer,  he  caught  her  and  kissed  her. 

She  did  not  struggle,  but  when  he  set  her  down  she  flew 
at  him  like  a  wild  beast,  and  with  all  her  force  butted  him 
in  the  stomach,  so  that  he  fell  against  a  chair  and  then  to  the 
floor. 

"There!"  she  shrieked.  The  anger  in  her  small  face 
distorted  it,  and  she  was  white  about  the  nose  and  mouth  in 
an  alarming  way. 

Lord  Yeoland  stood  silent  for  a  moment  and  then  said 
to  her  sternly,  "  Go  up  to  your  room,  Pamela,  and  stay  there 
until  I  send  for  you." 

Without  a  word  she  obeyed  him. 

"  You  may  go,  Ratty." 

Then  the  old  man  watched  his  son-in-law  drink  a  glass 
of  water.  "  That  was  quite  a  blow,  Dick." 

"A  blow,  sir!  I  thought  she  would  have  killed  me.  I — 
I  haven't  got  my  wind  back  yet." 

"  Come  out  on  the  terrace  with  me,  will  you?  You're 
still  rather  green."  For  the  time  being  gout  was  defeated 
and  Lord  Yeoland  walked  as  well  as  any  one  but  for  a  slight 
lameness,  the  result,  it  was  said,  of  an  old  bullet. 

The  two  men  crossed  the  black  and  white  stone  floor 
of  the  hall  in  silence,  and  sat  down  under  a  big  oak  outside 
the  door. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  to  her,  Dick?  " 

The  old  man  lit  a  cigar  and  leaned  back  comfortably  in 
his  wicker  chair. 

"  Do  to  her?  I  don't  quite  understand."  This  was 
true,  for  Dick  Maxse  was  not  vindictive. 


50  P  AM 

"  Yes.  Shall  I  spank  her,  or  shut  her  in  her  room,  or — • 
what?  It  was  rude,  what  she  did." 

His  air  of  complete  detachment  from  whatever  matter 
chanced  to  be  in  hand  often  puzzled  people,  and  Maxse 
had  even  yet  not  got  quite  used  to  it. 

"  Well,"  he  said  ruefully,  "  I  shan't  be  able  to  move 
to-morrow,  I  daresay.  It  was  a  cruel  return  for  a  kiss,  but 
I  don't  want  you  to  punish  her.  She  does  hate  being  kissed, 
doesn't  she?" 

"  By  you  at  least.  I  have  noticed  that  she  is  rather  keen 
on  kissing  Cazalet." 

"  Cazzy!     Well,  I  am  not  a  vain  man,  but " 

Lord  Yeoland  laughed.  "  I  agree  with  you,  but  the  fact 
remains  that  she  does  dislike  you,  so  suppose  you  stop  teasing 
her!" 

"Teasing  doesn't  hurt  children,"  returned  Dick,  unex- 
pectedly mulish,  as  often  is  the  way  with  men  of  his  type. 
"  It  cures  them  of  a  lot  of  nonsense." 

"  That  may  be,  but  I  don't  wish  you  to  tease  Pam." 

"  Well,  sir,  upon  my  word  I  don't  quite  understand  you ! 
You  began  by  asking  me  to  name  her  punishment,  and  end 
by " 

"  By  forbidding  you  to  tease  her.  Quite  so ;  that  is  pre- 
cisely what  I  have  done.  The  fact  is,  Maxse,  you  wouldn't 
want  to  tease  her  (it  is  a  new  word  for  kissing)  if  she  were 
a  boy,  and  you  know  it.  She  doesn't  know  it,  possibly,  but 
she  feels  it,  and  that  is,  I  think,  why  she — knocked  you 
down."  A  faint  smile  stirred  the  old  man's  lips.  "  To 
change  the  subject,  how  is  your  horse's  foot?  " 

But  Maxse  rose  and  with  a  sulky  answer  strolled  away. 

Lord  Yeoland  watched  him.  Maxse's  walk  was  very 
characteristic,  had  a  curious  stranger  chosen  to  study  it. 
His  father-in-law  knew  the  ins  and  outs  of  his  character, 
such  as  it  was,  too  thoroughly  for  curiosity,  but  the  springless 


P  AM  si 

walk,  the  hunching  shoulders,  the  movement  of  the  heavy 
hips,  told  their  story  so  well  that  he  sighed  involuntarily. 

He  himself  had  been  fast  enough  in  his  day ;  he  had  drunk 
a  good  deal,  had  played,  and  had  loved  not  wisely  but  too 
often.  But  there  is  a  well-bred  way  of  wasting  one's  life, 
and  Dick  had  not  discovered  it.  He  was  as  coarse  in  his 
pleasures  as  a  stableman,  and  had  not  learned  the  saving 
grace  of  looking  ill  and  interesting  after  a  bout;  he  looked, 
as  Pam  had  expressed  it,  simply  "  horrid." 

"  Send  Miss  Pamela  to  me,  Thomas,"  Lord  Yeoland  said 
suddenly  to  the  footman  who  came  to  remove  the  coffee- 
tray,  and  a  few  minutes  later  Pam  stood,  very  erect,  before 
him. 

"  Are  you  not  ashamed  of  yourself?  "  he  asked  sternly. 

The  two  pairs  of  eyes  looked  steadily  into  each  other. 
He  had  an  idea  that  she  was  not  taking  him  with  sufficient 
seriousness,  and  drew  his  white  eyebrows  down  and  frowned 
at  her. 

"  How  could  you  so  far  forget  yourself  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  forget  myself.  I  won't  be  kissed,  grandfather, 
so  there's  an  end  of  it." 

"  He  is  your  uncle." 

"  He  is  not  my  uncle." 

"  He  is  you  aunt's  husband,  which  is  the  same  thing." 

"  Aunt  Rosamund  isn't  my  real  aunt,  is  she?  " 

"  Of  course  she  is  your  real  aunt.  What  on  earth  do 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean,  mother  isn't  father's  wife,  you  know,  so  I 
thought "  His  face  softened  at  her  innocent  seriousness. 

"  My  dear,  do  you  know  that  it  is  very,  very  sad,  that 
your  mother  is,  as  you  say,  not  your  father's  wife  ?  " 

"  Sad?  I  don't  think  it  is  exactly  sad,  for  they  have  such 
a  good  time  together." 

"  Nevertheless  it  would  be  much  better  if  they  were  mar- 


52  P  AM 

ried.  If  they  were,  your  name  would  be  Sacheverel, — that 
is  Kennedy, — and  y«ur  mother  could  come  here,  and  every 
one  would  be  glad  to  see  her." 

Pam  suddenly  sat  down  cross-legged  on  the  grass  and 
rested  her  chin  in  her  hand.  "  I  know.  Pilgrim  is  always 
saying  such  things.  But — I  don't  think  married  people  are 
happy,  do  you?  " 

It  was  so  ludicrous,  and  so  pathetic  at  the  same  time,  that 
the  old  man  did  not  know  what  to  answer. 

"  Some  married  people  are  very  happy." 

"  But  most  aren't.  Poor  Madame  de  Vaucourt  hated 
her  other  husband,  and  had  to  get  a  divorce  from  him;  then 
Aunt  Rosamund  and — that  man — you  don't  call  them  happy, 
do  you  ?  " 

Her  eyes  had  their  most  monkey-like  expression  as  she 
looked  at  him. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know ;  they  were  very  much  in  love  when 
they  were  married,  or  at  least " 

Instantly  she  pounced  on  the  weak  point  in  his  statement. 

"  There !  You  see !  They  used  to  be,  and  now  they 
aren't!  Well,  just  look  at  mother  and  father!  Why,  G. 
F.,  they  love  each  other  so!  It  is — beautiful." 

"  So  Cazalet  said." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Then  the  old  man  sighed. 
Something  had  happened,  he  was  not  sure  what,  but  his 
pleasure  in  the  child  as  a  queer  little  animal,  born  to  amuse 
him,  had  gone.  For  the  first  time  he  realised  that  she  had, 
somewhere,  a  soul,  and  that  that  soul  must  be  cultivated. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  he  said,  gently  laying  his  delicate  hand 
on  her  knot  of  hair,  "  I  have  asked  Mr.  Maxse  not  to  kiss 
you,  and  I  must  also  beg  you  to  be  civil  to  him.  He  is  a 
guest  in  my  house." 

"Oh!" 

She  whirled  round  and  stood  facing  hira,     "  I  am  sorry, 


P  AM  53 

You  may  tell  him  that  I  am  very  sorry.  I  will  never 
either  scratch  or  knock  him  down  again."  Alas  for  discipline, 
that  at  this  remark  they  both  burst  out  laughing. 

But  when  she  had  run  away    he  sat  a  long  time,  very 
thoughtful. 


CHAPTER  IX 


LORD  YEOLAND  had  never  had  a  son,  and  when  one 
had,  to  her  own  great  surprise,  been  born  to  Rosamund 
Maxse,  the  old  man's  joy  had  been  great. 

"  You  must  name  him,  father,"  his  daughter  said  to 
him,  as  he  sat  by  her  holding  the  red-faced  newcomer 
rather  skilfully  in  his  arms,  "  if  you  won't  have  him  called 
after  you."  And  Lord  Yeoland  had  named  him. 

The  Viscount  Charles  Adrian  Joseph  de  Rattrec  had  been 
a  friend  of  his  lordship's  in  their  twenties.  The  two  had 
dwelt  together  with  much  satisfaction  and  a  good  deal  of 
extravagance  in  a  certain  quiet  street  in  Paris  which  had 
been  less  quiet  after  their  advent  than  before  it. 

Oii  sont  les  neiges  d'antan  is  all  very  well,  but  ou  est  le 
solell  d'antan  would  have  been  better,  for  which  of  us,  as  he 
or  she  grows  older,  does  not  dream  more  of  the  sunshine 
than  of  the  snows  of  yester  year? 

The  golden  warmth  of  the  old  sun,  the  hot  sweetness  it 
used  to  draw  from  the  nodding  lilac-plumes,  where  are  they? 

Surely  laughter  is  less  merry,  tears  less  spontaneous,  than 
of  yore.  In  a  word,  ou  est  le  soleil  d'antan? 

Lord  Yeoland  named  his  grandson  as  much  in  memory 
of  the  old  days  as  in  that  of  his  friend,  de  Rattrec,  a  bit  of 
sentiment  over  which  he  himself,  who  naturally  had  grown 
from  a  charming,  slightly  cynical  young  man  to  be  a  charm- 
ing, slightly  cynical  old  one,  half  laughed. 

Ratty  Maxse  was  a  monstrous  baby,  and  speedily  grew 
into  a  monstrous  child.  He  was  dear  to  his  grandfather, 
but  the  old  man  wished  he  were  not  quite  so  overwhelm- 

54 


P  AM  55 

ingly  fat.  The  child  was  built  in  bulging  curves,  his  legs 
were  like  hams,  his  cheeks  shook  like  properly  made  pink 
jellies.  Later,  his  back  view,  in  knickers,  was  a  temptation 
to  unmerited  chastisement. 

Pauline  and  Rosamund  having  been  attractive  children, 
Lord  Yeoland  watched  his  grandson  with  an  expectation 
of  sudden  development  of  beauty  that  was  not  without  its 
pathetic  side.  He  had  had  many  disappointments,  but  this 
rather  ludicrous  one  was  not  the  easiest  to  bear,  for  it  came 
at  a  time  when  hope,  even  in  a  buoyant  bosom,  begins  to 
quiet  down. 

It  had  been  a  shock  to  him  when  Pauline  went  away,  and 
his  conscience,  rudimentary  as  he  had  kept  it  through  a 
careful  process  of  constant  pruning,  had  sometimes  whispered 
to  him  that  it  might  not  have  happened  if  he,  just  when  she 
was  growing  to  womanhood,  had  not,  owing  to  a  very 
enchanting  and  engrossing  lady  not  known  to  court  circles, 
been  living  almost  entirely  in  London,  leaving  her  at  home 
with  her  dull  sister  to  amuse  herself  as  best  she  might. 

Misfortunes  usually  going  in  flocks,  it  hardly  surprised 
him  when  his  daughter's  elopement  had  been  closely  fol- 
lowed by  the  lady  not  known  to  court  circles  being  suddenly 
brought  to  see  the  errors  of  her  ways  and  marrying  a  youth- 
ful baronet,  popularly  supposed  to  be  not  quite  right. 

Lord  Yeoland  was  in  the  early  fifties  then,  and  can  hardly 
be  blamed  for  resenting,  a  year  or  so  after  the  last  sad  event, 
a  series  of  those  stiff-necked  attacks  of  gout  which  warn  a 
man  that  he  might  as  well  stop  dyeing  his  moustache. 

His  resentment,  however,  was  both  invisible  and  short- 
lived, for  he  was  too  clever  to  fight  against  such  odds,  and, 
realising  that  he  had  for  years  been  burning  his  candle  at 
both  ends,  handed  over  his  matchbox  without  a  protest,  and 
became  not  ungracefully  the  old  man  that  his  way  of  living 
rather  than  the  number  of  his  years  had  made  him. 


56  P  AM 

Naturally,  when  he  a  few  years  later  met  M.  de  Rattrec, 
a  well  got-up  dandy  with  the  ogling  eye  of  the  old  days 
still  ogling  but  dim,  his  good  stories  still  told  but  grown 
musty,  that  silly  old  ass's  airs  and  graces  had  disgusted  him. 
One  is  so  hard  on  one's  cast-off  vices ! 

Young  de  Rattrec,  as  has  been  said,  persisted  in  remaining 
the  least  attractive  of  children,  and  then  in  steadily  develop- 
ing into  the  least  attractive  of  boys,  and  the  old  man,  who 
was  still  in  the  painful  stage  of  hopeless  hope  when  Pam 
arrived,  a  small  bundle  of  wonderful  possibilities,  turned  to 
her  with  an  eagerness  that  had  long  fed  on  his  disappoint- 
ment in  his  grandson. 

That  summer  afternoon  when  Dick  Maxse  had  gone  off 
to  sulk  Lord  Yeoland  sat  for  nearly  an  hour  turning  over 
and  over  in  his  mind  all  these  things. 

Pam,  as  well  as  being  like  her  all  too  enchanting  father, 
was  really  astoundingly  like  himself,  and  this  is  in  any  child 
a  charm  to  any  relative,  quite  irrespective  of  the  advisability 
of  such  resemblance.  Her  sudden  fit  of  temper  over  Maxse's 
kiss  had  really  delighted  the  old  man,  for  he  knew  that  had 
he  been  in  her  place  he  would  have  done  precisely  the  same 
thing. 

And  then  he  had  been,  in  his  careless  way,  fond  and  proud 
of  his  beautiful  daughter,  and  while  it  had  not  only  suited 
his  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  but  amused  him  to  play  the 
inexorable  parent  to  the  world,  even  to  Cazalet,  it  had  been, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  only  his  conviction  of  Pauline's  indiffer- 
ence which  had  prevented  his  making  the  experiment  that 
the  old  steward  had  undertaken  with  such  a  mixture  of 
sentiments. 

So  Pam  was  dear  to  him  for  more  than  one  reason,  and 
he  realised  as  he  sat  there  thinking  under  the  oak  that  she 
had  brought  him  a  new  interest  in  life. 

Her  distinct  personality  delighted  him;  she  was  as  thin 


P  AM  57 

and  quick  as  Ratty  was  fat  and  slow ;  she  was  full  of  dignity 
and  took  herself  seriously,  but  her  sense  of  humour  was  quick 
and  deep. 

Her  reciting  gave  him  pleasure,  though  not  quite  in  the 
way  that  she  intended,  for  he  knew  Ravaglia,  and  recog- 
nised her  wonderful  mimicry  of  that  tragic  woman.  It  had 
amused  him  to  turn  her  loose  in  the  library  and  watch  the 
choice  of  further  recitations  that  she  made. 

Some  of  Swinburne's  splendid  indecencies  were  among 
her  favourites,  as  they  would  have  been  among  Ravaglia's 
had  the  Italian  spoken  English ;  and  the  sharp  contrast  of  the 
child's  thrilling  voice,  deepened  to  the  amazing  travesty  of 
her  model's,  uttering  what  he  called  the  purple  words,  and 
the  innocent  pride  in  her  eyes,  gave  him  the  most  exquisite 
amusement. 

Once,  after  a  recitation  behind  closed  doors  to  her  appre- 
ciative and  abnormally  solemn  grandparent,  he  said  to  her: 
"  Pam,  word  of  honour  not  to  recite  these  things  to  any  one 
but  me." 

"Not  even  to  Ratty?" 

"No!    Good  heavens,  no !" 

The  child  scratched  the  monkey's  head  pensively.  "  Very 
well,  G.  F.,  I  promise.  Now  tell  me  why?  " 

The  old  man  was,  as  he  put  it  to  himself,  staggered  for 
a  moment.  Then  he  decided  to  tell  the  truth,  a  proceeding 
that  he  had  found  as  a  rule  the  most  politic. 

"  Well,  because,  though  very  beautiful,  and  as  you 
observed  a  moment  ago,  very  dramatic,  they  are  not  usually 
the  poems  that  small  girls  recite.  Small  girls  as  a  rule  recite 
about — well,  about  birds,  and  flowers,  and  angels — and  suck 
things." 

Pam  nodded. 

"  I  know.  Awful  rot.  I  much  prefer  things  I  can't 
understand." 


58  P  AM 

He  recalled  the  absurdly  wise  expression  in  her  small 
face  as  she  had  said  it.  How  he  had  enjoyed  her!  And 
now — had  he  got  to  stop?  Must  he  have  her  trimmed  and 
pruned  ? 

Another  of  his  amusements  had  been  to  take  her  to  the 
picture  gallery  and  make  her  use  her  powers  of  observa- 
tion on  the  portraits  of  her  maternal  ancestors.  "  What 
do  you  think  of  that  one?  "  he  would  ask,  stopping  his  chair 
opposite  the  portrait  in  question,  and  watching  her  as  she 
studied  it. 

"  He  looks  very  kind,  but  stupid ;  rather  like  a  priest." 

"  Are  they  kind  and  stupid  ?  " 

"  They  have  to  be  kind,  you  know.  And  I  don't  think 
many  of  them  are  the  cleverest  of  their  families." 

"  And  the  one  above  our  friend  Yellow  Waistcoat?  " 

"  He  is  nicer;  more  interesting,  I  mean.  I'm  sure  he 
had  a  dimple  when  he  laughed,  and  he  has  beautiful  hands." 

And  so  it  went. 

One  day  she  discovered  in  a  corner  a  small  portrait  of  a 
man  in  Cavalier  costume,  with  a  long  scar  on  his  cheek. 
"  Oh,  this  one!  This  one  I  love,  G.  F.  Who  was  he?  " 
she  cried,  her  hands  clasped. 

"  That's  what  you  must  tell  me,  my  dear.  You  like 
him?" 

"  Like  him  ?  No.  I — if  he  were  alive  I  should  be 
afraid  of  him,  but — I  should  adore  him.  I  should  love 
him,  really,  you  know,  as  mother  loves  father." 

"  He  was  an  excellent  young  man,"  said  Lord  Yeoland, 
watching  her  closely,  "  very  religious  and  studious.  That 
lady  in  the  crimson  cloak  was  his  wife.  They  had  seventeen 
children,  and  it  is  said  that  he  could  say  the  whole  Acts  of 
the  Apostles  by  heart.  He  used  to  do  so  every  morning 
before  breakfast." 

The  child's  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  face,  and  when  he 


P  AM  *9 

ceased  speaking  she  burst  out  angrily:  "  It  is  not  true!  I 
don't  believe  he  was  religious  and  knew  things  like  that  by 
heart.  I  don't  believe  that  hideous  old  thing  was  his  wife 
at  all.  You  are  teasing  me!  " 

''Right!  I  wanted  to  see  whether  you'd  believe  me. 
Now  that  you  do  not,  suppose  you  tell  me  what  you  do 
think  about  Sir  Digby;  he  happens  to  be  one  of  the  few 
about  whose  life  I  can  give  you  a  little  information." 

Pam  stood  opposite  the  picture,  the  sun  streaming  in  on 
her  back,  and  splashing  over  the  dark  face  of  the  man  she 
was  studying. 

"  I  think  that  he  was  bad,"  she  said ;  "  really  bad,  you 
know.  I  think  he  gambled  awfully,  for  heaps  of  money, 
and  that  he  drank  out  of  a  big  silver  flagon  and  got  drunk, 
not  sleepy  or  silly  drunk,  but  the  kind  when  they  get  angry 
and  fight.  And  I  think  he  could  sing,  rather  like  father, 
only  not  so  well,  and  that  he  loved  women  very  much." 

"  That  one  up  there  in  blue  really  was  his  wife,"  put  in 
her  hearer  casually.  "  Well,  go  on — he  loved  his  wife " 

"  I  didn't  say  he  loved  his  wife.  I  don't  believe,"  with 
a  sharp  glance  at  the  lady  in  question,  "  that  he  did.  I  said 
he  loved  women  in  general.  I  think  he  made  love  splen- 
didly, you  know." 

"Dear  me!" 

Lord  Yeoland  started,  his  rubber-tyred  wheels  silent  on 
the  old  oak  floor.  Her  diagnosis  was  startlingly  correct. 

"  You  are  about  right.  He  was  much  as  you  say,  and 
the  scar  came  from  a  duel.  But — you  have  described  a 
very  bad  man,  young  woman,  do  you  know  it?  " 

Pam  laughed.  "  I  know.  He  looks  bad,  but  he  is  inter- 
esting, and  I  love  him,"  she  said.  "  I  find  most  good  men 
so  very  dull  G.  F. !  " 


CHAPTER  X 


AND  now  his  lordship  had  suddenly  realised  that  he  could 
not,  for  his  own  peace  of  mind,  go  on  enjoying  his  grandchild. 

Cazalet  had  discovered  and  brought  her  to  Monks'  Yeo- 
land  with  the  tiresome  purpose  of  having  her  brought  up 
and  educated. 

His  lordship  had  delighted  in  her,  had  drawn  her  out, 
with  his  old  lack  of  all  feeling  of  responsibility  in  the 
development  of  his  own  children  intensified  strongly  by  the 
facts  both  of  her  parentage  and  her  power,  in  her  pristine 
condition,  to  amuse  him. 

Now,  by  a  few  words,  she  had  so  suddenly  shifted  him 
to  a  new  view  point  that  he  was  almost  giddy,  and  to 
balance  himself  mentally  caught  at  that  most  obvious  of 
supports,  the  Rector. 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  She  must  be  sent  to  Cunning- 
ham. Cunningham  would  teach  her  the  proper  stuff  and 
drill  her  into  the  usual  mental  manoeuvres  of  young  English 
maidens.  And — spoil  her — he  reflected  ruefully. 

Ratty's  tutor,  who  had  been  at  home  since  Pam's  arrival, 
indulging  in  a  long  convalescence  after  an  attack  of  typhoid 
fever,  would  soon  be  back.  The  old  man  frowned  im- 
patiently. 

Bingham  could  teach  Pam  some  few  things,  such  as  how 
to  add  a  column  of  figures,  how  to  know  a  Latin  verb  from 
a  noun  at  sight,  and  how  to  spell.  The  old  man  took  it  for 
granted  that  the  child  could  not  spell — no  Yeoland  could; 
and  to  him,  whom  she  charmed,  she  was  all  Yeoland.  So 

60 


P  AM  6i 

between  Cunningham  and  young  Bingham  she  would  do. 
It  was  a  great  pity,  but  it  evidently  had  to  be. 

Evelyn,  Ratty's  sister,  coming  across  the  lawn  as  he 
reached  this  point,  saw  her  grandfather  and  joined  him. 

"  Grandpapa,  have  you  seen  Pam?  "  she  asked.  She  was 
a  pretty  blonde  child  with  curls  and  sweet  eyes. 

Lord  Yeoland  was  not  fond  of  her,  for  no  particular 
reason,  but  she  was  of  the  type  of  women  that  he  had  all 
his  life  designated  as  "  rabbity,"  and  she  made  him  yawn. 

"  Yes,  she  was  here  a  moment  ago,  my  dear.  I  don't 
know  where  she  went.  Did  you  and  Miss  Kester  have 
a  nice  time  at  the  rectory?  " 

"  Yes,  thank  you,  grandpapa.  Mrs.  Cunningham  showed 
us  her  postage-stamp  album  and  her  school-books.  Just 
fancy,  her  school-books  are  all  neatly  covered  with  chintz, 
just  as  she  had  them  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  and  they 
all  have  her  name  written  on  the  first  page — '  Charlotte 
Louisa  Percy.'  Isn't  it  interesting?" 

"  Charming.  Perfectly  charming.  I  think  you  will  find 
Pam  somewhere  in  the  old  garden,  my  dear." 

"Oh,  yes.  I  don't  think  I'll  look  for  her,  though.  She 
makes  me  do  things  I  oughtn't,  Miss  Kester  says." 

Lord  Yeoland  brightened.  "Does  she?"  he  asked 
briskly.  "What  kind  of  things?" 

Evelyn  was  a  nice  child  and  had  not  meant  to  be  a  tale- 
bearer, so  she  hesitated,  and  wished  she  needn't  answer. 

"What  kind  of  things,  I  said,"  insisted  the  old  man 
sharply,  for  he  wanted  to  stamp  on  Evelyn  when  she  dug 
holes  in  the  grass  with  her  toes  in  that  way. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  said  it,  grandpapa — not  bad  things,  you 
know,  only  mischievous.  Yesterday  she  made  me  pick  a 
lot  of  green  winter  pears." 

"Made  you?     Why  the — why  did  you  do  it?" 

"  She — she  made  me." 


62  P  AM 

"  What  could  she  do  to  you  ?  How  could  she  make 
you?  Now  for  God's  sake  don't  cry.  I  don't  mind  the 
pears,  I  only  want  to  know.  How  did  she  make  you  pick 
a  lot  of  pears  if  you  didn't  want  to  ?  " 

Evelyn  bit  her  lip,  but  answered  bravely  enough :  "  I 
don't  know  how,  grandpapa,  but  she  did.  She  just  did !  " 

"  I  see.  Did  she  happen  to  tell  you,  my  dear  (you  see  I 
am  not  at  all  angry),  why  she  made  you?  " 

"  Yes.  She  wanted  to  see  if  she  could.  She  always 
wants  to  see  whether  she  can  make  people  do  what  she 
wants." 

"Ah !     And  can  she,  as  a  rule  ?  " 

Evelyn  nodded,  half  proud  of  her  erring  relative's  power. 
"  Yes,  she  can.  She  makes  nurse  give  us  jam  whenever  we 
want  it,  and  yesterday  she  wouldn't  let  Ratty  eat  one  bit  of 
his.  Ratty  would  have  cried  if  he  hadn't  been  so  big.  And 
McWhirter  cut  a  lot  of  gardenias  for  her  the  other  day. 

"Coaxes,  does  she?" 

"  Oh,  no.  She  just  says  'do  it '  or,  '  I  wish  you  to  do  so 
at  once,'  and  then  they — we — do." 

"  And  what  did  she  do  with  the  gardenias?  " 

"  She  gave  them  to  Mary  Carroway;  her  baby  died,  you 
know." 

"  That,"  remarked  Lord  Yeoland,  laughing  and  rising, 
"  was  generous  of  her  at  least.  Why  didn't  you  remind  her 
that  the  gardenias  happened  to  belong  to  me?  " 

"  I  did,  grandpapa." 

"Well?    What  did  she  say?" 

"  She  said  that  she  didn't  care  if  they  were  the  queen's, 
that  she  wanted  them  and  would  have  them." 

The  old  man  crossed  the  lawn  to  the  right,  and  walked 
slowly  down  the  slope  to  the  path  leading  to  the  rectory. 
It  was  a  great  pity.  Originality,  a  most  unusual  quality  in 
women,  seemed  to  be  the  child's  by  right  of  inheritance,  and 


P  AM  63 

now  he  was  giving  her  into  the  hands  of  Cunningham,  who 
would  root  it  out  and  leave  nothing  but  a  scar  in  its  place. 
"  However,"  he  thought,  with  a  glimmer  of  hope,  "  she  has 
a  pretty  strong  will,  it  appears,  and  may  refuse  to  be  culti- 
vated into  the  usual  monotony." 

And,  indeed,  Pam  did  not  show  any  particular  love  for  the 
process  placidly  planned  by  the  excellent  Cunningham. 

Sent  to  the  rectory  a  few  days  later  in  a  fresh  frock  and 
her  second-best  hat,  she  surprised  the  good  man  by  bringing 
with  her,  in  lieu  of  Caliban,  whom  she  had  been  forbidden 
to  take,  a  small  snake,  which  she  produced  from  her  pocket 
and  showed  the  Rector  with  pride,  but  a  certain  suspicious 
gravity. 

"  My  dear  child,  how  very  disgusting!  Don't  put  it  on 
me,  I  beg  of  you !  " 

"Who  made  it?"  inquired  the  pupil  solemnly,  a  formula 
used  by  Miss  Kester  when  she  herself  had  been  found  killing 
snails  with  her  slipper. 

"  God  made  it,  of  course,"  returned  Mr.  Cunningham, 
as  was  proper,  "  but  He  did  not  mean  it  for  a  domestic  pet." 

Pam  returned  the  little  creature  to  her  pocket,  which  she 
closed  by  means  of  a  large  safety-pin,  and  then  sitting  down, 
folded  her  hands  and  looked  up  inquiringly. 

It  was  a  cool  afternoon  and  the  pleasant  old  drawing- 
room  was  agreeably  heated  by  an  open  fire,  before  which  the 
master  and  pupil  sat. 

"  Your  grandfather  has  asked  me,  my  dear  Pamela,  to 
have  a  talk  with  you,  with  a  view  to — h'm! — informing 
myself  somewhat  as  to  the  amount  of  religious  instruction 
you  have  thus  far  had — h'm!" 

"  I  have  not  had  any  at  all." 

The  Rector  knew  this,  but  it  seemed  the  place  for  a  little 
kindly  horror.  When  he  had  done  his  duty  in  this  respect, 
he  went  on :  "  You  are  ten,  I  believe." 


64  P  AM 

"  I  shall  be  eleven  the  fourteenth  of  November." 

"  Just  so.  So  we  may  count  that  you  can  be  con- 
firmed  " 

"  I  am  not  going  to  be  confirmed !  " 

"  Not  going " 

Pam  patted  her  pocket,  in  which  the  little  snake  had 
begun  to  give  wriggles  of  impatience,  and  smiled  gravely 
into  Mr.  Cunningham's  face. 

"  No.     I  hope  you  don't  mind  ?  " 

"But,  my  dear  child " 

"  I  have  never  been  christened,  you  see,  so  it  hardly  seems 
worth  while." 

The  Rector  rose.  He  had  christened  and  confirmed 
Pauline  Yeoland ;  her  "  fall "  had  been  a  severe  blow  to 
him,  and  he  had  never  ceased  to  pray  for  her.  Now  here 
was  her  own  child  telling  him  that  she  had  not  only  so  far 
forgotten  her  dignity  as  Lord  Yeoland's  daughter  as  to  run 
away  from  home  with  a  married  opera  singer,  but  that  in 
the  two  years  that  had  elapsed  before  the  birth  of  her  child 
she  had  so  forgotten  his  teaching  as  not  even  to  have  that 
poor  little  offspring  of  sin  in  the  name  of  Christ  given  the 
only  name  it  could  bear. 

He  walked  up  and  down  In  pained  silence  for  a  moment, 
and  then  turned.  "  But,  Pamela,  you  must  be  christened. 
I  cannot  understand " 

"  Oh,  I  was  born  on  a  yacht,  you  know,  and  then  later — 
well,  I  suppose  they  forgot.  I  really  don't  mind  a  bit, 
though,"  she  added  consolingly. 

"  My  poor  child !  "  The  good  man's  uninteresting  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and  Pam  jumped  up  and  rushing  to  him 
caught  his  hand. 

"  Oh,  please  don't !  Don't  be  so  sorry.  I  never  cared 
a  pin.  They'd  have  let  me  be,  I'm  sure,  if  I  had 
wanted  to." 


P  AM  65 

"  It's  not  that,  my  dear,  but  that  you  are  so— such  a — 
it  is  so  dreadful  that  you  have  not  been  christened." 

Her  face  lightened  suddenly,  and  slipping  her  hands 
around  his  arm  she  gave  it  a  little  squeeze. 

"  Oh — now  I  see.  Well,  I  will  be — if  you  want  me  to. 
I'd  just  as  soon  as  not;  I  mean  christened.  So  please  don't 
be  sorry.  I  can't  bear  to  have  people  be  sorry !  " 

"  You  wish  me  to  christen  you!  " 

She  smiled  kindly  at  him.  "  Well,  as  long  as  you  want 
to,  you  may.  I'm  not  particularly  keen  on  it,  but  you  may, 
and  whenever  you  like." 

Her  air  of  making  a  good-natured  concession  to  an  unrea- 
sonable but  favourite  child  would  have  convulsed  any  one 
possessed  of  the  slightest  sense  of  humour,  but  a  wrise  Provi- 
dence had  denied  the  good  Rector  that  very  great  gift  (per- 
haps because  his  marriage  was  already  planned  in  heaven, 
a»d  Charlotte  Louisa  Percy  was  not  destined  to  be  a  delight 
to  one  who  did  possess  it),  and  he  did  not  even  smile. 

Pam  arranged  with  him  that  the  ceremony  should  take 
place  the  following  Wednesday  in  the  church.  It  could 
not  be  on  Tuesday,  as  she  had  an  engagement. 

She  did  not  mention  that  the  engagement  was  connected 
with  two  ferrets  and  her  cousin  a  la  main  gauche  de  Rattrec 
G.  Y.  Maxse. 


CHAPTER  XI 


LORD  YEOLAND  assisted  at  Pam's  christening  with 
the  chastened  demeanour  of  one  who  realises  that  his  feelings 
do  not  fit  the  occasion.  The  child's  air  of  good-natured  tol- 
erance for  an  old-fashioned  superstition,  in  which  many 
worthy  people  still  believed,  almost  upset  his  gravity  more 
than  once,  but  a  glance  at  Cazalet's  and  good  Mr.  Cunning- 
ham's happy  faces  steadied  it  for  the  time. 

Mrs.  Maxse,  Evelyn,  and  Ratty  were  also  present,  and 
the  ceremony  passed  off  in  a  manner  satisfactory  to  them 
all.  When  it  was  over  and  Lord  .Yeoland  had  kissed  his 
grandchild's  still  damp  brow,  a  scurrying  noise  was  heard 
behind  them,  and  down  the  aisle  scampered  Caliban,  chat- 
tering irascibly. 

Pam  burst  out  laughing,  and  caught  him  up  into  her 
arms. 

"  Oh,  you  bad  boy!  "  she  remarked  sociably.  "  You  have 
run  away  again.  And  he  couldn't  imagine  what  Pam  was 
doing  here  in  the  cold,  old  church,  could  he!  " 

Even  Lord  Yeoland  was  a  little  startled  by  the  every- 
day sound  of  her  voice  in  that  Sunday  environment,  and 
he  hurried  the  little  party  out  into  the  pale  October  sun- 
light. 

"  Wasn't  it  lovely,  Pam  ?  "  asked  Evelyn  as  they  turned 
towards  home. 

"What?  Oh,  being  christened?  Yes,  very  nice,  indeed. 
Oh!  I  forgot  to  thank  Mr.  Cunningham.  Wait  a  minute. 
Ratty,  will  you?" 

66 


PAM  67 

Ratty  followed  her  and  reached  the  vestry  door  just  in 
time  to  see  her  embrace  the  good  man. 

"  Thank  you  so  much !  "  she  said  politely,  with  the  effusion 
of  one  whose  tiresome  act  of  duty  is  now  happily  a  thing 
of  the  past  and  done  with ;  "it  is  nice  to  have  a  real 
name." 

The  Rector's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  He  would  have 
known  how  to  deal  with  mere  ignorance,  with  obstinacy,  or 
with  actual  opposition ;  but  this  slip  of  a  girl,  with  her  tragic 
eyes  and  her  queenly  manner  of  making  him  concessions  in 
this  little  matter  that  chanced  to  interest  him,  foiled  him 
utterly. 

So  he  kissed  her,  told  her  that  he  would  pray  for  her,  and 
sent  her  off  with  Ratty,  who,  very  bulbous  in  a  new  suit, 
awaited  her  outside  the  door. 

"  I  say,  Pam,  you  are  a  funny  one,"  the  boy  began,  with 
a  curiosity  that  he  did  not  know  how  to  express. 

"  I  am  not  much  like  other  children,  that  is  true,"  she 
returned  indifferently.  "  Pilgrim  says  it's  because  I  have 
had  such  a  queer  life,  but  it  comes  from  inside  really." 

Ratty's  interest  in  and  knowledge  of  his  own  inside  being 
strictly  limited  to  his  stomach,  he  did  not  answer. 

The  two  children  walked  on  for  a  few  minutes  in  silence, 
and  then  he  began  suddenly:  "  I  say,  Pam,  Bingham  \s 
coming  back  to-morrow." 

"Is  he?" 

"Yes.  And  lessons  will  begin.  Oh,  hang  it,  how  I  do 
hate  learning!  " 

"  I  don't.     I  like  it." 

"  Wait  till  he  makes  you  do  a  lot  of  nasty  Latin  into 
English.  He's  an  awful  rotter." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  learn  Latin." 

"  Yes,  you  are.  Grandfather  says  you  are  to  learn  every- 
thing with  me." 


68  P  AM 

"  I  won't.  I'm  going  to  learn  history,  and  how  to  write 
like  Evelyn ;  that's  all." 

"  You'll  have  to  learn  whatever  grandfather  says,  Miss 
Cocksure,"  retorted  the  boy. 

"Pooh!  I'm  not  his  child;  nor  yours,  either,  Fat  Boy, 
and  no  one  in  the  world  can  make  me  do  what  I  don't 
want  to." 

She  slung  the  monkey  to  her  other  arm,  and  Ratty,  look- 
ing at  her  in  vexed  admiration,  saw  that  her  red  lips  were 
drawn  tight  in  a  way  very  like  his  grandfather's. 

"  How  do  you  do  it?  I  mean  not  do  what  they  say?  I 
often  try,  and  I  always  fail  sooner  or  later." 

"Oh,  you!"  she  returned  with  good-natured  contempt. 
"  You  couldn't  do  it  because  you  care  about  things." 

"  Care  about  things?  " 

"  Yes;  about  food,  and  holidays,  and  presents,  and  things." 

"  Well,  don't  you  care  about  'em?  " 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  him.  "  No.  When  I  want 
to  have  my  own  way  the  only  thing  in  the  world  that 
interests  me  is  getting  it.  I  don't  care  if  they  shut  me  up, 
and  I  forget  all  about  the  sweets  and  things  they  don't  let 
us  have.  I  only  want  one  thing  at  a  time,  and  I  want  it 
hard.  That's  the  way  I  always  get  it." 

Ratty  sighed. 

"  I  wish  I  were  like  you,  but  I'm  not.  I  want,  or  like, 
such  a  lot  of  things  at  a  time." 

"  I  know.  So  you  always  give  in.  It  is,"  she  added  with 
a  sudden  assumption  of  wisdom,  "  better  for  children  to 
obey;  every  one  says  so,  particularly  Pilgrim.  Only — it 
doesn't  amuse  me  to  obey." 

Ratty  maintained  a  depressed  silence  for  a  few  minutes; 
the  presence  of  such  undeniable  mental  superiority  in  a  mere 
girl,  who  was  his  own  cousin  at  that,  dispirited  him.  Then 
suddenly  the  cheering  thought  occurred  to  him  that  Lord 


P  AM  69 

Yeoland's  will  was  popularly  supposed  to  be  fairly  strong, 
and  that  Pam  would  probably  in  the  matter  of  Latin  not 
have  quite  the  walkover  that  she  anticipated. 

"  Well,  we  shall  see,"  he  observed,  as  they  came  out  into 
the  lawn  behind  the  house.  "  Grandfather  told  mother 
that  you  were  to  learn  everything  I  do,  that's  all  I  know." 

Pam  did  not  answer;  the  subject  had  ceased  to  interest 
her. 

That  evening  as  Pilgrim  dressed  her  for  dinner  the  maid 
asked  whether  she  had  of  late  had  any  news  from  home. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  forgot  to  tell  you.  They  are  going  to 
Cannes  for  Christmas.  Mother  sent  her  love  to  you,  and 
she  has  a  lovely  new  pale  blue  dinner  gown,  and  wishes 
you  were  there  to  lace  it  up.  Claire  is  very  nice,  but  not 
like  Pilly,  she  says." 

Pilgrim's  grim  face  softened.  She  had  been  very  happy 
at  Monk's  Yeoland,  for  to  her  surprise  she  had  had  a  great 
social  success  among  the  servants  and  villagers,  all  of  them 
clothing  their  curiosity  regarding  "  Miss  Pauline "  in  a 
garment  of  cordiality  towards  their  old  comrade. 

It  was,  of  course,  perfectly  in  accordance  with  the 
unchangeable  dictates  of  that  most  interesting  mystery  that 
we  call  human  nature,  that  Pilgrim's  society  should  now 
be  more  sought  after  than  in  the  days  before  she  had  eloped 
with  her  young  mistress  and  her  mistress's  lover;  but 
Pilgrim  knew  little  about  human  nature,  and  was  therefore 
touched  and  grateful  for  not  being  treated,  as  she  had  more 
than  half  expected,  as  a  pariah. 

Thus  the  months  passed  pleasantly  enough  for  the  maid, 
and  she  had  grown  both  more  agreeable  and  slightly  rounder 
as  to  shoulders  and  elbows  in  the  comfortable  atmosphere 
of  her  old  home. 

So  only  a  further  reference  to  the  inexplicabilities  of 
human  nature  can  explain  the  fact  that  the  reference  to  her 


70  P  AM 

mistress's  new  gown  brought  with  it  a  sudden  rush  of  the 
most  convincing  homesickness  for  that  mistress. 

It  seemed  to  her,  as  she  stood  with  a  brush  in  one  hand 
and  Pam's  splendid  silky  hair  sweeping  over  the  other,  that 
everything  on  earth  was  unbearable;  that  she  must  either 
fly  to  the  outer  darkness  she  had  just  escaped  and  see  and 
touch  Pauline  Yeoland,  or  die. 

Pam,  looking  at  her  little,  thin  shoulders  and  arms  in  the 
glass,  raised  her  eyes  and  noticed  the  woman's  face. 

"Why,  Pilgrim!    What  is  the  matter?"  she  cried. 

"  Nothing,  Miss  Pam.  I  am  an  old  fool,  that  is  all,"  was 
the  answer,  as  the  brush  began  to  sweep  steadily  through 
the  hair. 

"  But  you  are  pale — and  you  are  going  to  cry.  Poor 
old  Pilly,  what  is  it?" 

Then  Pilgrim  broke  down  and  wept  until  her  nose  was  as 
red  as  fire  and  her  thin  lips  swollen.  "  I  don't  know  what 
it  is,"  she  sobbed ;  "  it  just  came  over  me — how  I  want 
to  see  her."  Pam's  arms  were  close  around  her  neck,  so 
she  could  not  see  the  child's  face. 

"  Mother !  It's  mother  you  want  to  see !  But — you  were 
glad  to  come,  Pilly!  And  I  thought  you  liked  it  here  so 
much.  Because  every  one  is  married,  you  know,  and  you 
don't  feel  disgraced !  " 

"  Oh,  Pam,  don't !  I  do  like  it — I  mean  I  did.  But 
after  all,  it  is  a  bit  dull,  and  then — she  doesn't  care  a  fig  for 
me ;  I  know  that  as  well  as  you,  but  I  can't  help  it.  Ever}' 
one  is  dull  after  her." 

Pam's  eyes  grew  suddenly  monkey-like. 

She  knew  perfectly  that  her  mother's  utter  forgetfulness 
of  every  one  and  everything  on  earth  besides  Guy  Sacheverel 
did  not  tend  to  render  her  a  splendid  exception  from  the 
dulness  of  the  rest  of  human  kind.  Pauline  was  brilliant 
only  in  her  radiant  golden  and  white  beauty.  She  took 


PAM  71 

no  pains  to  be  amusing;  her  careless  good-nature  would, 
had  she  been  plain,  not  have  sufficed  to  endear  her  to  her 
servants,  and  even  Pam's  share  in  her  affections  were,  the 
child  herself  knew,  comparatively  small.  Many  people  live 
to  a  good  old  age  thinking  that  those  who  love  many  are 
loved  much,  but  small  as  she  was  Pam  had  learnt  the  fallacy 
of  this  useful  belief. 

She  knew  that  her  mother  attracted  people  quite  without 
making  an  effort,  or  even  caring  a  rush  about  it;  she  knew 
that  there  was  in  her  mother  something  that  drew  to  her  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men  and  women.  That  this  quality 
is  pitifully  expressed  by  the  long-suffering  word  "  charm  " 
the  child  did  not  know,  but  she  felt  its  power  in  her  mother, 
and  now  seeing  the  new  exposition  of  it  in  the  unlovely 
Pilgrim,  something  seemed  suddenly  to  be  drawing  her  too 
away  from  Monk's  Yeoland  back  to  the  old  life. 

And  for  the  first  time  missing  her  mother  and  father, 
she  missed  them  with  such  violence  that  she  ached  all 
over. 

"  Don't  howl,  Pilly  dear.  You  must  dress  me,  you  know, 
or  I'll  be  late  for  dinner.  And — I  know  what  you  mean. 
I've  had  about  enough  of  this.  I  think  we'll  not  stay 
much  longer." 

Pilgrim  blew  her  nose  and  then  gasped  with  surprise. 
"  But,  Miss  Pam — we  have  come  for  good !  Your  mother 
gave  you  to  'is  lordship." 

"  Rubbish!     Ain't  I  me?     No  one  can  give  me  away." 

"  You  are  to  be  educated,  though,  and — and  it  is  much 
better  for  you,  of  course;  that  life  is  not  fit  for  a  young 
lady." 

Pilgrim  finished,  as  she  spoke,  the  first  of  the  long  plaits 
that  had  superseded  the  topknot  as  a  state  coiffure,  and 
slipped  the  little  blue  frock  over  Pam's  head. 

"  I'm  not  a  young  lady;  don't  be  nonsensical,   Pilgrim. 


72  P  A  M 

And  don't  pull  my  ear  off.  I  tell  you  what  I  think.  I  shall 
go  back  soon.  I  may  come  back  next  summer,  though." 

"  If  you  run  away,  Miss  Pam,  they  won't  let  you  come 
back,"  returned  Pilgrim  severely.  She  was,  as  frequently 
happens,  rather  startled  by  the  effect  of  her  own  words, 
and  showed  an  amiable  desire  to  eat  them. 

"  Oh,  yes,  they  will."  Pam  clasped  about  her  collar  the 
string  of  tiny  pearls  her  grandfather  had  recently  given  her, 
and  gave  a  hasty,  uninterested  glance  at  herself  in  the  glass. 
"  My  grandfather  will  always  be  glad  to  see  me.  I  amuse 
him." 


CHAPTER  XII 


MR.  THEODORE  BINGHAM,  the  tutor,  rather  thin 
and  very  brown  after  his  convalescence  at  the  sea-shorer  un- 
expectedly reconciled  Pam  to  a  few  weeks  more  of  Monks' 
Yeoland. 

He  was  a  well-favoured  youth,  with  what  she  called 
specks  of  gold  in  his  brown  eyes,  and  a  pet  pipe,  very  black 
and  disreputable-looking,  which  he  smoked  whenever  he 
could  escape  from  the  trammels  of  society  for  a  few  moments. 

Pam  at  once  told  him  that  she  loved  him. 

"  Oh,  Pam,  how  can  you!  " 

Evelyn  was  genuinely  shocked.  Although  she  had  no 
lessons  with  her  brother,  she  had  come  to  his  room  on  the 
great  occasion  of  Pam's  presentation,  half-frightened  (for 
Ratty  had  told  her  that  there  was  bound  to  be  a  row)  and 
half  curious  to  see  how  her  redoubtable  cousin  would  behave. 

Pam's  behaviour,  she  found,  left  much  to  be  desired. 

"  Well,  I  do  love  him,  Evelyn,  so  why  shouldn't  I  say 
so?" 

Ratty  laughed.  "  She  won't  love  him  long,  Evy.  Wait 
till  he  begins  with  her  Latin." 

Pam,  who  had  brought  Caliban,  sat  down  on  the  floor 
and  looked  intently  at  the  tutor's  boyish  face. 

"  I  shall  always  love  you,"  she  answered ;  "  Ratty  doesn't 
know  one  thing  about  me." 

"  You  can't  love  him  until  you  know  him,"  persisted 
Evelyn  with  gentle  obstinacy. 

"  Or  until  you  see  how  he  treats  you,"  added  Ratty. 

73 


74  P  AM 

"  It  doesn't  make  any  difference  how  long  I've  known 
him.  Do  I  love  every  one  I've  known  a  long  time? 
There's " 

She  paused,  for  she  could  hardly  say  that  a  long  acquaint- 
ance with  the  children's  father  had  utterly  failed  to  con- 
vince her  of  that  volatile  gentleman's  fascinations.  "And 
it  doesn't,"  she  went  on,  "  make  any  difference  what  he  does 
to  me.  If  I  love  him,  I  love  him." 

Bingham  gave  a  merry  laugh. 

"  You  are  a  funny  little  person,"  he  observed,  "  but  I'm 
glad  you  love  me.  I  shan't  love  you,  though,  unless  you  are 
a  good  girl  and  learn  your  lessons." 

Pam  rose.  "  I  don't  care  whether  you  love  me  or  not ; 
that  is,"  she  added  with  slightly  bored  accuracy,  "  I'd  rather 
you  did,  but  if  you  don't  it  won't  make  me  stop  loving  you." 

"  It  won't?  Well,  as  long  as  we  seem  to  be  discussing 
the  tender  passion,  I  may  observe  that  as  a  rule  reciprocity  is 
considered  rather  important  as  a  hostage." 

Ratty  and  Evelyn  listened  vaguely.  The  splendid  words 
employed  by  the  tutor  impressed  them. 

Pam  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  rubbed  her  cheek  to 
Caliban's. 

" '  Love  is  not  love  M'hich  alters  when  it  alteration 
finds,'  "  she  answered  so  matter-of-factedly  that  Bingham 
at  first  did  not  notice  that  she  was  quoting.  Before  he 
could  answer  she  went  on :  "  Well,  I'm  going  to  see  Cazzy. 
Good-bye,"  and  left  the  room. 

The  talent  for  giving  our  friends  an  opportunity  for 
gracefully  changing  their  minds,  and  doing  diametrically 
the  opposite  of  that  which  they  have  been  swearing  to 
do,  is  unfortunately  a  neglected  one. 

Ratty,  had  he  allowed  Pam  to  follow  the  dictates  of  her 
mind  on  Wednesday  night,  might  have  changed  the  course 
of  her  life,  but  fortunately  or  unfortunately  he  did  not.  and 


P  A  M  75 

the  next  time  he  saw  her  reminded  her  triumphantly  of  her 
vows  of  Tuesday  regarding  the  Latin  lessons. 

"  What  '11  you  do  about  the  lessons,  now  that  you  love  him 
so?"  the  boy  cried,  munching  his  cake,  for  the  interview 
took  place  at  tea. 

"Lessons?" 

"  The  Latin  lessons." 

"  Oh,  I  shan't  care  now."  Pam  was  absent-minded,  for 
Cazzy  had  to  her  great  surprise  taken  her  rather  seriously 
to  task  for  some  minor  misdemeanour,  and  she  felt  that  the 
world  could  be  very  bitter. 

Ratty  gave  a  laugh,  that  ended,  owing  to  a  misdirected 
crumb,  in  a  snort.  "Ha!  Just  like  a  girl.  Now  that 
you  see  what  a  big  chap  he  is,  you're  afraid !  " 

The  girl  flushed.  "  I'm  not  afraid.  Tutors  don't  punish 
girls." 

"Don't  they!     You  wait." 

"  I  shall  do  just  as  I  like  about  the  Latin.  If  I  do  study 
it,  it  will  be  because  I  like  him  and  want  to  please  him." 

The  lessons  were  not  to  begin,  owing  to  a  sudden  fit 
of  indulgence  on  Lord  Yeoland's  part,  until  November  I, 
and  during  the  week  before  that  date  Pam's  devotion  to 
Mr.  Bingham  increased  rapidly. 

It  was  to  him  that  she  flew  whenever  she  could  escape 
from  Ratty,  whose  fitful  adoration,  tempered  with  con- 
tempt, bored  her  unutterably. 

She  took  the  tutor  to  see  her  favourite  places  in  the 
park,  and  the  garden;  she  preached  to  him  in  the  refectory, 
using  her  voice  for  his  benefit  with  all  her  skill,  sinking  to 
depths  and  rising  to  soft  heights  that  thrilled  even  the  rather 
unemotional  spirit  of  the  ex-football  champion.  And  one 
evening,  when  it  was  very  damp  and  misty,  she  stole  away 
from  the  school-room  and  joined  him  on  the  terrace  where, 
among  the  ghostly  rose-trees,  he  was  smoking  his  evening  pipe. 


76  P  AM 

"  I  love  the  mist,  don't  you  ?  "  she  began,  taking  his  arm. 

"  Yes — rather.  You'll  take  cold,  though,  Pam ;  don't  you 
want  to  put  on  my  cap  ?  " 

She  laughed.  "  No.  I  have  too  much  hair  to  need  a 
cap.  Did  you  ever  see  my  hair  down — I  mean  loose?  " 

"  No.  I  say,  you'll  get  a  wigging  if  Mrs.  Maxse  finds 
you  out  here.  I  ought  to  send  you  in." 

"  I  daresay,  but  you  won't,"  she  returned  carelessly. 
"  The  moon  is  coming  out — oh,  look,  how  lovely!  " 

And  the  moon  is  never  more  beautiful  than  when  shining 
through  a  white  autumn  mist  on  brilliant  creepers  and 
ghostly  yellowing  leaves. 

But  Bingham  loved  an  argument.  "  How  do  you  know 
I  won't  send  you  in  ?  " 

"  Because  I  amuse  you." 

"Well,  what  if  you  do?" 

"  How  curious  you  are !  I  mean  that  you  will  keep  me 
with  you  because  I  amuse  you." 

"  Lots  of  things  amuse  me  that  I  don't  do,  or  '  keep  with 
me,'  "  he  persisted,  as  they  turned  at  the  end  of  the  terrace. 

"  Then  you  are  a  goose.  I  always  do  and  keep  things 
I  like.  Other  things  are  so  boresome.  Now  look." 

Without  his  noticing  it,  she  had  loosened  her  hair,  and 
now  she  came  in  front  of  him,  holding  it  out  at  arm's  length, 
with  both  hands. 

"Stand  still— there!" 

The  straggling  moonlight  fell  over  her  strange  little 
figure,  changing  her  face,  making  her  at  once  a  pathetic 
mist  spirit  and  a  tragic  woman.  For  the  first  time  Bing- 
ham saw  her  possibilities.  The  hair  in  its  soft  darkness  gave 
to  her  the  air  of  being  a  woman  who,  with  loose  tresses, 
looks  younger  than  she  is,  and  it  hid  the  immature  lines  of 
her  figure. 

At  first  she  danced.     Waving  her  arms,  crossing  them, 


PAM  77 

bending  backwards  and  forwards,  kneeling,  whirling,  she 
was  dancing  to  charm  him,  and  every  movement  was  full 
of  innocent  coquetry.  He  forgot  who  she  was,  that  she 
was  a  child,  that  she  was  an  absurd  little  monkey;  for  her 
appeal  had  reached  his  imagination  and  he  gazed  at  her 
dreamily,  in  silence. 

Then  suddenly  she  stopped  and  began  to  recite,  in  Italian. 
He  did  not  understand  the  words,  but  their  meaning  was 
clear.  It  was,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  one  of  Ravaglia's 
most  celebrated  recitations,  and  given  in  a  wonderfully 
exact  reproduction  of  the  best  of  the  great  artist's  intona- 
tions. But  what  breathed  life  into  it  was  the  originality 
of  the  child's  mind,  which  shone  through  every  word  and 
every  gesture. 

As  she  reached  the  climax  her  voice,  hurried  and  vibrating, 
broke,  and  with  the  one  word  "Amore "  with  which 
Ravaglia  had  always  moved  her  audiences  to  frenzy  in 
Latin  countries,  and  to  enthusiasm  in  England,  she  sprang 
forward,  her  hands  held  out,  her  lips  parted. 

Bingham,  hardly  knowing  what  he  was  doing,  caught 
her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

When  he  set  her  down  he  was  red  with  anger  against 
himself. 

"Bravo!"  he  cried,  forcing  a  laugh.  "Very  well  done 
indeed.  I  quite  thought  we  were  both  on  the  stage!  " 

"  You — you  kissed  me,"  she  stammered. 

He  laughed  again.  "I  did;  why  not?  I  have  a  lot 
of  little  sisters  about  your  age.  I — I  must  show  you  their 
pictures." 

She  caught  his  hand  and  held  it  to  her  breast.  "  Yes  ; 
show  them  to  me.  And  you  must  love  me.  Will  you? 
Will  you  promise?  As  much  as  you  love  them?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  promise,  if  you  are  a  good  child,"  he  returned, 
much  relieved. 


78  PAM 

"  I  will  be  good.  I  will  do  anything  on  earth  that  you 
want  me  to,"  she  said,  winding  her  hair  into  a  rope,  with 
a  curious  circular  movement  of  her  head  and  pinning  it  on 
her  crown.  "  Only  you  must  love  me  really,  as  much  as  if 
I  were  your  sister.  I  always  wanted  a  brother." 

"  When  my  sisters  are  troublesome  I  give  'em  awful 
wiggings!  " 

"And  you  may  give  me  wiggings.  Oh,  I  will  be  verf 
good! "  she  cried. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


"  I  WILL  do  anything  but  that." 

Pam  stood  in  the  window,  Caliban  held  tight  in  het 
arms. 

"  But  this  is  the  only  thing  I  want." 

"  I  can't.  I'll  learn  Greek,  if  you  like?  Greek  is  much 
nicer  than  Latin,  and — much  harder." 

"  Latin.  Your  grandfather  says  that  you  are  to  study 
everything  that  Ratty  does." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  What  is  your  first  name?  "  inquired  Pam  suddenly. 

"  My  first  name?     Theodore.     Why?  " 

"  Theodore  means  gift  of  God.  I  thought  you  were  a 
gift  of  God  to  me,  because  I  have  no  real  brother.  But 
when  you  torment  me,  I  see  that  you  aren't." 

Bingham  gave  a  vexed  laugh.  "  My  dear  child,  I  don't 
want  to  torment  you.  If  you  would  just  be  reasonable " 

"  I  won't." 

"  So  it  seems.  Well,  I  have  done  my  best.  I  am  sorry, 
but  I  shall  have  to  tell  Lord  Yeoland  that  you  refuse  to 
obey  him." 

"  Very  well."  Her  voice  sounded  a  little  mournful,  but 
had  none  of  the  note  of  intimidation  that  the  tutor  knew 
in  Ratty's  at  such  threats. 

"  My  grandfather  wTill  be  very  much  distressed,"  she 
added,  "  and  he  is  an  old  man." 

Bingham  nodded  gravely.  "  I  know  such  shocks  are 
dangerous  at  his  age." 


so  P  AM 

Sorrowfully  they  looked  at  each  other  as  if  in  mournful 
council  over  the  health  of  some  dear  one. 

Then  suddenly  Pam  burst  out  into  a  peal  of  such  merry 
laughter  that  he  joined  her  in  a  companionable  forgetfuiness 
of  their  position  as  outraged  master  and  refractory  pupil. 

"It  is  so  funny,"  she  began,  "isn't  it?  Now  don't  say 
it  isn't,  for  it  is.  I  mean  your  trying  to  make  me  obey 
you." 

"  I  don't  quite  see  the  fun." 

"  Why,  because  the  more  you  insist,  the  harder  it  will 
be  for  you  to  give  way." 

"  That's  a  point  of  view  that  had  escaped  my  notice. 
Doesn't  it  seem  to  you  that  the  more  you  insist  the 
harder " 

"  No,  for  I  shan't  give  in.  Now  I'll  go  down  and  talk 
to  my  grandfather.  I  had  better  break  the  sad  news 
myself." 

Her  eyes  twinkled  as  she  left  the  room. 

Bingham  was  puzzled.  She  was  uncanny,  with  her 
grown-up  ways  and  her  very  unchildlike  sense  of  humour. 
However,  Lord  Yeoland  would  know  how  to  manage  her. 

Lord  Yeoland,  who  had  had  gout  rather  badly  for  a 
couple  of  days,  was  not  in  the  blandest  of  humours  when 
the  child  entered  the  room.  She  saw  it,  and  sitting  down 
opposite  him  made  conversation  for  several  minutes  before 
springing  her  mine.  She  told  him  of  the  prospective  mar- 
riage between  one  of  the  under-gardeners  and  Lucy,  the 
housemaid  with  the  dimple;  she  waxed  eloquent  over  the 
new  litter  of  puppies  in  the  stables  and  enthusiastic  in  her 
account  of  the  last  book  she  had  read.  Then,  suddenly,  she 
burst  out,  "  Grandfather,  I  don't  want  to  learn  Latin, 
please." 

"  Not  learn  Latin?    Why  not?  " 

"Because— I  don't." 


P  AM  81 

The  old  man  looked  at  her.  "  Give  me  your  reasons, 
please,"  he  said  testily. 

"  Ratty  says " 

"Never  mind  what  Ratty  says.  Confound  the  boy!  he 
grows  fatter  every  day.  Answer  my  question." 

"  Well,  I  don't  want  to,  because  I  don't.  I  can't  think 
of  a  better  reason." 

"  Nor  I  of  a  worse." 

"  First  I  said  I  wouldn't  because  Ratty  said  I  must,  and 
then  when  I  said  I  would,  Ratty " 

"Why  did  you  say  you  would?" 

"  Because  I  liked  Mr.  Bingham."  Caliban,  who  had 
a  very  human  understanding  and  was  a  sensitive  soul, 
snuggled  his  small  head  close  under  her  warm  chin  as  the 
old  man  snapped  out  his  question,  and  the  child,  stroking 
the  little  creature  reassuringly,  said  in  her  tenderest  voice, 
"  Never  mind,  dear,  he  won't  hurt  you ;  it's  only  the  gout !  " 

Lord  Yeoland  grinned  ferociously.  "  What's  only  the 
gout?" 

"  Your  being  cross.     You  frighten  him." 

"Aha!  I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm  sure;  I  have  no  business 
to  visit  the  sins  of  my  toe  on  you  and  Caliban.  You  were 
saying  that  you  decided  to  obey  me  because  you  like  Mr. 
Bingham ;  a  most  feminine  line  of  reasoning.  Go  on." 

"And  then  Ratty  said  it  was  because  I  was  afraid.  That 
I  was  afraid  Mr.  Bingham  would  punish  me.  That  it  was 
because  he  was  so  much  bigger  than  I." 

"  H'm!  "  The  old  man's  good  humour  was  coming  back. 
"  Bingham  certainly  appears  to  be  several  sizes  larger  riian 
you.  Well?" 

"  So,  you  see,  I  can't  give  in  and  obey  Mr.  Bingham." 

"  I  don't  see  that  at  all,  my  dear." 

"  But  I  cannot  let  Ratty  think  I  am  afraid." 

"Why  don't  you  tell  him  you  are  not?"     His  interest 


82  P  AM 

grew  apace.  She  was  very  quaint  standing  there,  a  long 
pig-tail  hanging  over  each  shoulder  and  nearly  to  the  floor, 
lending  a  look  of  almost  Egyptian  sternness  to  her  small 
white  face,  the  monkey's,  so  grotesquely  caricaturing  her 
own,  pressed  to  her  cheek.  "  I  really  fail  to  see  what  Ratty 
has  to  do  with  it." 

"  The  people  one  lives  with  always  have  something  to  do 
with  it,  grandfather." 

He  laughed.  "  That  is  true.  Well,  so  your  line  of 
action  has  been ?  " 

"  I  have  refused  to  learn  Latin." 

"  Have  you  told  Bingham?  " 

"  Yes." 

"What  does  he  say?" 

"  He — scolds  and  coaxes,  and  threatens  to  tell  you." 

"  Which  explains  your  having  to  come  to  tell  me  your- 
self?" 

She  looked  surprised.  "  No,  I  wanted  to  ask  your 
advice." 

"  Oh !  Well,  I  advise  you  to  learn  Latin.  It  is — a 
charming  tongue." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to!  And  then  Ratty  is  so  disagreeable. 
He  thinks  that  because  he  is  a  boy  he  must  tease  me." 

"  What  would  happen  if  you  simply  said  you  have 
changed  your  mind  and  decided  to — obey  me?  " 

The  irony  of  his  suggestion  entirely  escaped  her. 

"  I  can't  say  that.    Don't  you  see  ?  " 

"  You  can  if  you  want  to !  " 

"  Then  I  don't  want  to." 

Suddenly,  without  warning,  the  Yeoland  spirit  of  irre- 
sponsibility touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  The  sight  of 
her  was  so  funny;  her  utter  unconsciousness  of  the  over- 
whelming majority  of  the  forces  arrayed  against  her  so 
delicious;  her  conviction  of  perfect  equality  with  any  oppo- 


P  AM  83 

nent  the  fates  might  bring  her  so  very  pathetic,  that  he 
greeted  the  spirit  with  a  delighted  laugh. 

"  Good !  I  never  could  resist  a  woman.  You  shall  learn 
no  Latin ! " 

And  then  with  a  thoroughly  childish  joy  she  flew  at 
him  and  kissed  him  gratefully.  "  Dear  G.  F.  Thank  you, 
thank  you  so  much !  " 

"  What  would  you  have  done  if  I  hadn't  relented,  eh  ?  " 
he  asked  as  she  released  him.  "  You  wouldn't  have  liked 
being  forced  to  obey!  " 

She  smiled. 

"  Oh,  I  shouldn't  have  obeyed ;  only  it  would  have  been 
very  disagreeable  for  us  all." 

When  he  was  alone  he  chuckled  several  times  over  the 
interview,  and  mentally  followed  her  in  her  triumphant 
entry  into  the  school-room. 

Her  communication,  however,  was  destined  to  be  post- 
poned, for  she  found  the  school-room  empty,  and  not  until 
tea-time  did  Mr.  Bingham  return  thither. 

When  he  did  come,  it  was  with  Ratty  and  Evelyn  and 
a  pair  of  fox-terriers  whom  Pam  detested,  out  of  sympathy 
with  Caliban,  who  gibbered  with  terror  at  their  approach. 

"  Oh,  please  send  Nip  and  Tuck  out  of  the  room ! — they 
frighten  Caliban,"  she  cried,  coming  forward  from  the 
window-seat  where  she  had  been  watching  the  sunset. 

Ratty  laughed.  "  They  have  a  better  right  here  than  that 
beast  of  a  monkey!  "  he  said  roughly. 

"  Ratty !     I  told  you  to  put  them  out." 

"  Nonsense ;  don't  put  on  airs." 

The  dogs  were  now  barking  excitedly  at  the  palpitating 
little  beast  in  her  arms,  and  Pam's  temper  rose. 

"  Mr.  Bingham,  tell  him  he  must." 

But  Bingham  had  seen  Lord  Yeoland  a  few  minutes  be- 
fore, and  an  amused  word  from  the  old  man  as  to  Pam 


84  P  AM 

had  irritated  him.  He  was  an  easy-going  enough  youth, 
as  a  rule,  but  he  had  made  a  point  of  making  Pam  have  the 
Latin  lessons,  and  the  fact  that  a  little  cajoling  on  her  part 
had  caused  his  employer  to  give  her  her  way  in  direct  op- 
position to  his  own  wishes  had  ruffled  him. 

Now,  the  sight  of  the  victor  with  the  monkey  whom  he 
had  never  liked  in  her  arms  brought  a  frown  to  his  smooth, 
young  brow.  "  The  dogs  have  a  perfect  right  to  be  here  if 
Ratty  wants  them,"  he  said  shortly,  sitting  down. 

Pam  opened  her  eyes  very  wide  and  stared  at  him.  They 
had  parted  friendly  enemies,  and  she  could  not  understand 
his  sudden  change  of  tone. 

"Very  well,"  she^said  slowly.  "Then  Cal  and  I  will 
go.  Aunt  Rosamund  will  give  us  tea." 

Instinctively  she  had  long  since  learned  that  her  small 
presence  lightened  to  the  tutor  the  dulness  of  his  hours 
with  Ratty;  as  she  expressed  it  to  herself  she  knew  that 
she  amused  him.  Now  she  would  go,  and  he  would  be 
bored.  But,  being  a  woman-child,  she  shot  her  shaft  before 
going. 

"  Grandfather  says  that  I  need  not  learn  Latin." 

Bingham  nodded  carelessly.  Unconsciously  he  treated 
her  as  he  would  have  treated  a  woman,  and  his  weapon 
struck  her  full  in  the  breast. 

"  I  know ;  he  told  me.  I  am  sorry,  for  you  would  have 
liked  it.  Evelyn  is  going  to  learn  it,  aren't  you,  Evy  ?  " 
And  tenderly  drawing  the  little  girl  to  him  he  kissed  her. 
Pam  stood  still,  turning  white. 

"Evelyn!     Latin!     Pooh — she — cannot!" 

Bingham  smiled,  but  his  eyes  were  hard  with  triumph. 

"  Can't  she?    We  shall  see,  shan't  we,  dear?  " 

Pam  rushed  from  the  room.  Jealousy,  that  fire-clawed 
demon,  tore  at  her  all  night.  That  Bingham  shouldn't  care 
about  the  lessons  was  bad ;  that  he  should  teach  Evelyn  was 


P  AM  85 

worse;  that  he  should  speak  to  Evelyn  in  that  voice,  and 
kiss  her,  was  absolutely  unbearable. 

The  child  lay  awake  all  night  thinking.  For  her  to 
relent  and  beg  to  be  forgiven  was  as  impossible  as  it  would 
have  been  for  her  to  grow  a  foot  before  morning.  For  her 
to  live  on  at  Monks'  Yeoland  and  see  Bingham  smile  at 
Evy  as  he  had  at  dessert  was  equally  out  of  the  question. 

There  was  but  one  course  to  take,  and  she  took  it  un- 
hesitatingly. 

She  left  the  house  at  dawn  with  Pilgrim,  whose  own 
feelings  were  too  evenly  divided  between  distress  at  going 
and  delight  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  Pauline,  to  allow  her 
to  make  any  active  resistance. 

They  took  the  train  for  London,  which  they  reached  by 
nine  o'clock,  and  went  at  once  to  Dover. 

Thus,  for  the  second  time,  Jane  Pilgrim  ran  away  frorr 
Respectability  and  Monks'  Yeoland. 


PART   II 
CHAPTER  I 


THE  tall  slim  girl  who,  with  a  singular  grace  of  shoulders 
and  hips,  that  seemed  to  have  come  unusually  early,  judging 
from  the  undeveloped  line  of  her  figure,  walked  up  the  steps 
into  the  Casino  at  Aix-le-Bains  one  evening  three  years  and 
a  half  later  was  Pamela  Yeoland,  and  the  elderly  woman 
decently  clad  in  black,  with  a  very  smart  bonnet,  who 
walked  stiffly  beside  the  girl,  was  Pilgrim.  Pilgrim's  Prog- 
ress, as  Guy  Sacheverel  called  it,  had  gone  on,  since  her  second 
flight  from  Monks'  Yeoland,  much  as  might  have  been 
expected. 

Following  the  fortunes  of  her  mistress,  growing  a  little 
grimmer  and  a  little  bitterer  every  day,  in  her  self-elected 
outlawry,  she  had  gone  on  wasting  the  whole  love  of  her 
heart  on  the  gently  indifferent  Pauline,  and  protecting  Pam 
from  the  slights  and  unpleasantness  that  the  child  neither 
anticipated  nor  resented  when  they  did  come,  with  a  tender- 
ness as  thorny  as  ever  was  tenderness  in  this  world.  Sache- 
verel  was  the  only  one  of  the  trio  who  appreciated  Pilgrim, 
for  Pauline  was  too  careless,  and  Pam  too  used  to  the 
woman  to  allow  of  her  almost  grotesquely  illogical  char- 
acter's appealing  to  them. 

And  now  that  Pam  was  nearly  fifteen,  Pilgrim's  eager 
chaperonage  of  her  waxed  and  increased  in  a  way  whose 
touching  side  did  not  escape  the  handsome  ex-singer. 

As  his  daughter  and  the  woman  disappeared  behind  the 
^winging  doors,  Sacheverel,  who  was  walking  up  and  down 
on  one  of  the  reading-room  verandahs,  awaiting  Pauline, 

86 


P  AM  87 

looked  after  them,  a  half  smile  on  his  face ;  and  when  Pauline 
came  out  of  the  room,  some  letters  in  her  hand,  he  said 
to  her,  "  Pam  and  Pilgrim  have  just  gone  in.  Pilgrim  is 
a  delicious  creature,  dearest." 

"  Pilgrim?  She  is  a  good  soul,  certainly,  but — we'd 
better  go,  Guy,  it's  nearly  time,  and  I  don't  want  to  miss 
the  serenade." 

"  But  that's  just  it ;  she  isn't  a  good  creature.  She's 
full  of  gall  and  bitterness;  she  resents  with  all  her  heart  all 
the  things  about  which  you  and  I  don't  care  a  damn." 

Pauline  put  on  her  glove  and  smoothed  it  daintily.  "  Pil- 
grim? Oh,  yes,  she's  cross  enough.  She  nearly  jerked  all 
my  hair  out  the  day  Claire  was  ill,  and  Pam  didn't  come 
to  dinner;  you  remember." 

"Oh,  yes!  Pam  and  Marguerite  Monsigny!  It  was 
funny,  in  a  way." 

"  Pam  had  no  business  to  dine  with  such  a  creature,  but 
then  she  didn't  know,  poor  child!  What  a  rage  Pilgrim 
was  in!  " 

"  Pilgrim  gave  me  a  most  awful  wigging.  And  of  course 
she  was  right,  in  a  way.  Pam  is  nearly  fifteen,  and  her  posi- 
tion is  peculiar." 

Pauline  nodded.  "  Oh,  of  course,  but  still  Pilgrim  was 
very  impertinent  that  day.  I'm  glad  that  she  devotes  her- 
self to  Pam;  I  prefer  Claire." 

"  Well,  Pilgrim  in  the  Peace  Bonnet  is  a  watch-dog 
warranted  to  keep  even  admiring  glances  from  the  greatest 
beauty  on  earth.  And  our  Pam,  bless  her,  is  hardly  that," 
he  added  with  a  good-natured  laugh. 

They  went  into  the  little  theatre  and  sat  down  in  the 
box  Sacheverel  had  taken  for  the  opera,  which  was  unusually 
good  that  year. 

"  I  suppose  we  really  ought  to  bring  Pam  with  us,"  he 
began  doubtfully ;  "  there's  plenty  of  room." 


«8  P  AM 

Pauline  looked  at  him,  her  blue  eyes  tender.  "  Dear! 
We  should,  neither  of  us,  enjoy  it  half  as  much  with  her 
here.  And  she  is  perfectly  happy  with  Pilgrim." 

"  I  daresay.  She  told  me  the  other  day,"  he  added,  laugh- 
ing again,  "  that  she  didn't  care  to  go  driving  with  us ;  that 
she  hated  to  feel  de  trop" 

Pauline  smiled  too.  Pam  amused  her,  and  she  was  fond 
of  the  child,  of  course,  but  it  was  better  to  have  Pam  down 
in  the  stalls  with  good  Pilgrim. 

This  feeling  Pam  quite  shared. 

"Pilly,  look!  That's  the  King  of  Greece.  And  there's 
that  rich  Brazilian.  Doesn't  he  look  exactly  like  a  nigger? 
And  oh,  look,  there  comes  Monsigny!  Isn't  she  glorious? 
The  King  of  the  Belgians— or  was  it  Prince  Belisoff? — gave 
her  the  diamonds.  I  wish  I  could  have  a  pink  gown  like 
that." 

Pilgrim  frowned.  "  Hush,  Miss  Pam.  Don't  stare  so  at 
that  woman." 

"  But  every  one  stares  at  her.  Almost  more  than  at 
mother.  Isn't  mother  a  dream  in  that  gown !  " 

Poor  Pilgrim  shuddered  at  hearing  the  girl  composedly 
comparing  her  mother  to  the  notorious  Parisian,  but  she 
said  nothing.  It  was  quite  useless  to  try  to  convince  Pam 
of  things  about  which  she  had  made  up  her  mind,  and  hav- 
ing met  the  beautiful  Monsigny  through  finding  and  re- 
turning a  jewelled  fan  that  the  "artiste"  as  she  called  her- 
self, had  dropped  after  a  concert,  the  girl  adored  the  lovely 
woman,  although  her  father  had  insisted  on  limiting  the 
acquaintance,  after  the  dinner,  to  bowing  terms. 

The  little  theatre  had  rilled  and  was  now,  at  the  hour 
advertised  for  the  beginning  of  the  Cavalleria  Rusticana, 
respectfully  quiet. 

Pam's  neighbour,  a  red-faced  Englishman  who  had  been 
grumbling  to  the  man  on  his  right  that  his  doctor,  con- 


P  AM  89 

found  him,  had  shut  down  on  his  Benedictine,  subsided  into 
silence,  and  the  conductor  raised  his  baton. 

Pam  listened,  but  she  was  not  particularly  fond  of  music, 
and  found  the  audience  more  interesting  by  far  than  Mas- 
cagni's  masterpiece. 

She  had  been  in  Aix  for  a  fortnight,  and  therefore  knew 
by  sight  a  great  many  of  the  celebrities  who  in  that  most 
frivolous  of  watering-places  do  congregate. 

There  was  Mimi  Lalonde,  famous  for  her  beautiful  feet 
and  her  remarkably  bad  luck  at  "  bac  " ;  in  the  next  box 
sat  Frau  Bendl,  the  great  Wagnerian  soprano,  looking  very 
commonplace  and  comfortable  in  a  stuffy  red  velvet  gown 
and  a  gold  chain  to  her  eye-glasses;  opposite  was  Lady 
Gower,  who  had  recognised  Pauline  with  a  start,  and  been 
at  such  pains  to  cut  her  publicly.  Lord  Gower,  a  dry  old 
man,  much  like  a  lizard,  would  be,  Pam  knew,  in  the  salle 
de  jeu  with  a  crowd  of  little  Frenchwomen  chattering 
around  him. 

The  music  went  on,  and  the  curtain  slid  slowly  up.  Pam 
gave  a  glance  at  the  stage.  She  hated  Santuzza,  who  roared 
because  a  man  wouldn't  marry  her,  and  the  only  episode 
in  the  opera  which  really  pleased  the  girl  was  that  of  Alfio's 
biting  Turiddu's  ear.  But  that  would  not  come  for  some 
time;  first  the  very  unnaturally  clean  and  merry  peasants 
must  trip  into  church,  and  the  tiresome  Santa  pray  and 
weep  for  a  half  hour  at  least. 

Pam  turned  unobtrusively  in  her  place  and  went  on  with 
her  inspection  of  the  audience. 

Her  beautiful  mother,  leaning  on  the  edge  of  the  loge, 
listened  with  a  dreamy  contentment.  Beside  her,  Sache- 
verel's  dark  face,  grown  a  little  heavier  in  the  last  years, 
softened  as  the  beautiful  music  wore  on  his  senses. 

Pam  wondered  what  it  was  that  so  stirred  them. 

And  then  suddenly  her  face  fell  on  a  man  who,  standing 


90  PA  M 

in  the  left  aisle,  leaned  against  a  box  and,  his  arms  folded 
close  on  his  broad  breast,  was  watching  her  mother. 

She  had  never  seen  this  man;  he  was  very  tall  and  very 
heavily  built,  though  not  fat.  His  clear-cut,  slightly  red- 
dish face  was  smooth  shaven,  and  the  mouth  was  at  once 
its  most  interesting  and  its  handsomest  feature. 

Something  in  the  cut  of  his  hair  and  that  of  his  clothes 
proclaimed  him  to  be  English,  or  at  least  freshly  come  from 
London.  He  was  watching  Pauline  Yeoland's  fair  face 
with  an  intensity  and  a  disregard  of  possible  observation 
which  forcibly  struck  the  child,  who  in  turn  was  watching 
him. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  came  slowly  down  to  his  seat, 
which  was  in  the  aisle  almost  facing  Pam's,  and  arranging 
himself  as  comfortably  as  possible  in  an  obviously  awkward 
position,  continued  his  rapt  gaze  at  her  mother.  His  abso- 
lute immobility  was,  though  the  child  did  not  know  it,  that 
of  great  physical  strength  joined  to  sound  nerves. 

His  eyes,  she  could  now  see,  were  reddish-brown  and 
rather  prominent.  They  interested  her  less  than  the  firm, 
full  lips.  She  had  never  seen  such  a  mouth ;  and  the  perfect 
flower  in  the  perfect  coat,  the  fit  of  the  large  white  gloves 
— these  things  added  in  a  curious  way  to  his  air  of  being  a 
half-tamed  animal. 

Her  eager  mind  roused,  her  vivid  Imagination  burning 
with  thoughts  of  the  man,  she  was  as  engrossed  as  he,  and 
when  suddenly,  at  a  great  bang  of  the  orchestra,  he  started 
and  his  eyes  met  hers,  his  face  showed  such  quick  apprecia- 
tion of  her  interest,  that  without  awkwardness  she  continued 
to  look  at  him,  unconsciously  turning  significantly  for  an 
instant  to  her  mother's  loge. 

The  big  blush  that  crept  over  his  face  made  her  feel  an 
absurdly  motherly  sympathy,  and  her  eyes  expressed  it  so 
distinctly  that  a  half-shrug  cut  the  blush  short  in  its  prog- 


P  AM  91 

ress,  and  he  smiled  at  her  with  the  indulgence  one  shows 
to  an  innocently  impertinent  child. 

Pam's  pride  was  hurt ;  she  felt  as  if  some  one  had  slammed 
a  door  in  her  face  and,  half  to  torment  him  with  her  supe- 
rior knowledge  of  the  woman  in  whom  his  interest  was  so 
transparently  keen,  she  met  a  smiling  nod  of  her  mother's 
at  that  moment  with  such  a  vehement  recognition  that  he 
turned  curiously,  and  then  seeing  what  had  happened,  trans- 
ferred his  gaze  from  the  distant  and  unapproachable  mother 
to  the  apparently  kindly  disposed  child.  Pam  was  inexor- 
able for  a  moment,  and  then  the  eloquence  of  his  red-brown 
gaze  vanquished  her,  and  she  smiled. 

Pilgrim,  whose  eyes  were  glassy  with  the  unlucky  Santa's 
woes,  observed  nothing,  and  Pam  continued  her  study  of 
the  big  man  with  the  frankness  of  ignorance  and  deep  in- 
terest. She  was  disposed  to  be  analytical,  in  a  small  way, 
of  her  own  thoughts  and  feelings,  but  she  could  not  account 
for  the  queer  charm  the  man  had  for  her.  The  hair  was 
wearing  away  from  his  forehead ;  he  was  quite  old  from  her 
point  of  view,  and  his  face  was  red.  Yet  she  longed  to 
know  him  and  to  talk  with  him. 

At  last  Turiddu  and  Alfio  had  gone  not  to  return,  and 
the  curtain  went  down  on  the  scurrying  crowd  of  peasants. 
The  opera  was  over. 

Pam  turned  to  Pilgrim.  "  Pilly,  mother  wants  me ;  I'll 
go  up  to  the  box.  You  stay  here  and  then  meet  me  by  the 
door  when  it's  over." 

"  I'll  come  with  you,  Miss  Pam." 

"  You  won't.  Your  eyes  are  all  bunged  up — you're  a 
fright.  I  know  the  way.  Good-bye." 

Slipping  past  the  indignant  servant  who  in  spite  of  her- 
self did  not  dare  follow  her,  the  girl  sped  up  the  aisle  and 
came  out  into  the  crowded  foyer.  When  she  had  reached 
the  door  of  her  father's  loge  she  paused  and  turned. 


92  P  AM 

As  she  had  known  by  some  instinct,  the  big  man  was 
behind  her,  dwarfing  all  the  others  with  his  bulky  height. 

"  Mother,  I'm  going  home,"  she  said,  entering  the  box. 
"  I'm  tired,  and  I  hate  '  Paillaisse  '!  " 

Pauline  turned.  "  Very  well,  dear.  Where's  Pilgrim  ? 
Isn't  that  she  still  in  her  place?  " 

"  Yes.  She  has  a  few  tears  left  and  wants  to  shed  them 
over  that  tiresome  clown.  I'll  go  through  the  garden  and 
take  a  fiacre.  It's  early." 

Her  mother  nodded.  "  Go  quickly,  then,  dear.  You 
should  have  brought  her." 

Three  minutes  later  the  child  stood  under  a  tree  in  a 
secluded  part  of  the  garden,  breathing  hard  as  she  watched 
the  big  man  hurry  along  towards  her. 

"  You  speak  English  ?  "  he  began  abruptly. 

She  laughed. 

"  I  am  English." 

"Thank  God!     I  don't  know  a  word  of  French " 

He  hesitated,  visibly  seeking  for  words.  She  looked  very 
young  out  here,  with  her  long  pig-tails  hanging  over  her 
shoulders  and  her  skirt  well  above  her  ankles. 

But  a  malicious  demon  of  mischief  laughed  at  him  out 
of  her  dark  eyes  and  gave  him  courage. 

"  Look  here,"  he  began  abruptly,  "  there's  no  use  beating 
about  the  bush — who  is  she?  " 

"  The  lady  in  black  in  the  box?  " 

"Yes— of  course." 

"  You  appear  to  admire  her." 

"  I  do  admire  her." 

"  She  is  certainly  very  pretty." 

He  flushed  as  he  had  in  the  theatre.  "  Yes.  You  know 
her;  tell  me  her  name." 

Pam  laughed.     "  Why  should  I  ?  " 

"  You  meant  to  when  you  let  me  follow  you  out  here." 


P  AM  93 

"You  don't  know  what  I  meant.  And  no  more  do  I," 
she  added  half  under  her  breath. 

"  I  do.  You're  too  young  to  have  been  just  making  a 
fool  of  me,  aren't  you?  " 

"  Depends  on  what  you  call  making  a  fool  of  you.  I  do 
know  her,  and  I  saw  that  you  admired  her." 

"  Tell  me  her  name." 

His  accent  was  not  that  of  an  Englishman,  and  his  curt 
way  of  speech  was  also  that  of  a  newer  civilisation. 

"  Excuse  me,  but  are  you  an  American  ?  "  asked  Pam. 

"No;  I'm  an  Australian;  Charnley  Burke  of  Victoria, 
if  you  want  my  name  and  address." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  while  the  strains  of  Pagliacci's 
entry  into  the  village  reached  them  from  afar. 

Then  Pam  went  on,  enjoying  her  power,  vicarious  though 
it  was,  of  reducing  this  big  and  evidently,  at  least  in  his 
own  opinion,  important  person  to  the  humiliation  of  begging 
for  this  longed-for  information. 

"  You  admire  the  lady,  and  you  want  to  know  her  name?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  when  you  know  it,  what  will  you  do  ?  " 

"  That  depends.  If  she  is  English,  as  I  hope  and  believe, 
I  shall  ask  some  one  to  introduce  me  to  her." 

"  I  see.    Well,  her  name  is  Pauline  Yeoland." 

"  Ah !  And  the  man  with  her  is  her  husband  ? >:  He 
spoke  with  suppressed  intensity,  his  big  voice  a  little  hoarse. 

"  No;  she  has  no  husband." 

"What!  Unmarried?  Or  a  widow?"  The  joy  in  his 
voice  urged  her  to  mercifully  end  his  delusion. 

"  Unmarried,  and " 

"  The  man — who  is  he?  " 

"  Guy  Sacheverel." 

He  frowned.  "  He  used  to  sing,  didn't  he?  Is  she  en- 
gaged to  him?  They  were  alone." 


94  P  AM 

Pam  understood  now.  He  had  fallen  in  love  with  her 
mother!  She  gave  a  little  shiver  of  delight. 

"  No,  they  are  not  engaged.     She — they  live  together." 

He  stared  for  a  second  and  then  burst  into  a  hoarse,  ugly 
laugh. 

"  So  she's  another  of  them!  It  seems  there  is  nothing 
else  here.  I  knew  the  others  were,  but  she — I  thought 
she  was  good." 

His  face  was  dark  with  anger  and  disappointment.  Pam 
was  desperately  sorry  for  him. 

"  Don't ! "  she  urged,  clasping  his  arm,  which  felt  as 
hard  as  iron  under  the  soft  broadcloth ;  "  she  is  good.  She 
is  an  angel.  You  see,  they  couldn't  do  anything  else.  He 
has  a  wife,  a  perfectly  horrid  person." 

Charnley  Burke  looked  down  at  her  as  if  he  had  never 
seen  her  before.  "I  see.  Well,  have  I  amused  you?  Go 
and  tell  your  angel — that  a  fool  from  Australia  adored  her 
for  an  hour,  and  dreamed,  actually,  of  marrying  her!  Love 
at  first  sight,"  he  added  to  himself,  but  aloud,  "  and  with 
one  of  them,  by  God !  " 

Although  she  did  not  understand  what  he  meant,  the 
girl  blazed  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and  drew  away  from 
him  with  a  quick  movement. 

"Don't  you  dare  say  things  about  her!"  she  cried  furi- 
ously. She's  my  mother!" 

Then  she  was  gone,  and  Burke  stood  staring  after  her. 


CHAPTER  II 


BUT  for  one  of  those  chances  which  are  at  once  so  remark- 
able and  so  common,  Pam  and  Charnley  Burke  would  never 
have  met  again. 

The  Australian,  after  a  much  troubled  night,  decided 
to  leave  Aix  at  once,  as  staying  on  and  again  seeing  Pauline 
could  only  increase  his  misery.  At  first,  in  his  angry 
disillusion,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  arrange  a  meeting 
with  the  woman  whose  beauty  had  had  such  a  tremendous 
effect  on  his  imagination,  and  then  try  issue  with  the  man 
whose  back  he  had  seen  in  the  loge. 

"  He  was  lucky,  why  shouldn't  I  be?  "  Burke  asked  him- 
self. He  was  rich,  perfectly  free,  and  nearly  forty  years 
of  varied  experience  had  taught  him  that  something  in  his 
very  vital  personality  was  attractive  to  most  wromen.  He 
had,  as  he  recognised  with  the  primitive  frankness  peculiar 
to  him,  fallen  seriously  in  love  now,  for  the  first  time  since 
his  boyhood,  and  the  longer  he  paced  his  room  that  night, 
Pauline's  lovely  face  distinct  in  his  memory,  the  stronger 
his  love  grew. 

But  since  Pam's  announcement  to  him  and  his  brutal 
interpretation  of  her  childish  words  his  love  had  changed 
its  character.  During  that  hour  in  the  theatre  the  man 
would  have  been  willing  to  kneel  before  Pauline  as  to  a 
goddess;  in  his  heart  he  did  kneel  to  her.  All  the  best  in 
his  nature  was  called  out  by  her,  and  it  came  very  near, 
as  sometimes  happens  with  men  of  his  stamp,  to  being 
adoration. 

95 


96  P  AM 

Then,  by  the  irony  of  fate,  the  woman's  own  child  had 
dragged  her  down  from  the  altar  built  by  the  man's  ima- 
gination, and  as  day  came  in  at  his  windows  and  he  still 
paced  up  and  down  in  his  evening-dress,  he  laughed  at  his 
own  folly,  and  mentally  bespattered  his  shattered  idol  with 
mud  she  deserved  no  more  than  she  had  deserved  the  in- 
cense of  the  night  before. 

He  would  stay;  he  would  meet  her,  and  what  has  been 
can  always  be  again. 

Later,  however,  when  a  bath  and  breakfast  had  some- 
what restored  his  mental  balance,  he  changed  his  mind. 

He  would  go  at  once,  and  forget  all  about  the  woman. 
There  was  no  sense  in  tempting  fate  to  such  an  extent, 
and  what,  after  all,  was  he,  to  dare  enter  the  list  with  a 
man  who,  judged  by  the  splendour  of  the  woman  who  loved 
him,  must  be  splendid  himself? 

Thus,  from  a  mixture  of  motives,  some  worthy,  some 
unworthy,  the  Australian  decided  to  leave  town  at  once, 
and,  a  little  pale  and  worn  by  his  vigil,  ordered  his  bill  and 
went  out  for  a  stroll  to  pass  the  time  until  the  Paris  express 
left.  Turning  naturally  into  the  Casino  garden,  he  wan- 
dered about  until,  observing  a  crowd  gathered  about  a  man 
who  was  photographing  the  terrace,  he  half  unconsnously 
joined  the  onlookers,  and  stood  absently  watching  the.  prep- 
arations. 

Suddenly  he  saw  a  young  woman,  who  was  just  in  front 
of  him,  look  around  with  a  keen  glance,  and  then  with 
great  skill  slip  her  hand  into  the  pocket  of  the  man  to  her 
left. 

When  the  hand  came  out  it  held  a  small  pocket-book. 
Burke  watched  her  with  some  interest  as  with  a  cool  "  Par- 
don, m'sieur!  "  she  forced  her  victim  to  make  way  for  her, 
and  then  sauntered  carelessly  away  towards  the  nearest  exit 
from  the  grounds.  Burke's  great  red  hand  was  cruelly 


P  AM  97 

strong  as  it  closed  on  the  small  one  of  the  thief  a  moment 
later. 

She  threw  him  a  terrified  look,  and  burst  into  tears  and  a 
flood  of  words  simultaneously. 

"  I  can't  understand  a  word  of  all  that,  but  I  want  the 
pocket-book,"  he  repeated  doggedly,  and  when  he  at  length 
augmented  his  formula  by  the  word  gendarmes,  she  handed 
him  the  purse  and  flew  away,  wiping  her  eyes  with  a  due 
regard  to  her  complexion. 

Regretting  that  he  had  not  had  time  to  give  her,  out  of 
pity,  something  from  his  own  pocket,  Burke  went  back  to 
look  for  the  owner  of  his  booty. 

The  man,  who  had  left  the  group  about  the  photographer, 
and  was  making  his  way  up  the  steps,  was  easily  overtaken. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  this  is  your  purse,"  began  the  Aus- 
tralian abruptly. 

Sacheverel,  for  it  was  he,  stared,  and  then  felt  in  his 
empty  pocket. 

"  Thanks  very  much.     Did  I  drop  it?" 

"  No ;  a  young  woman  took  it,  and  I  took  it  from  the 
young  woman." 

After  a  short  pause,  during  which  the  two  men  eyed  each 
other  curiously,  Sacheverel  said,  "  Surely  I  know  you?  " 

"  I  think  not.  And  yet,  I  seem  to  know  your  face.  I 
was  in  London  in  '80." 

"  And  so  was  I." 

"  62  Barbury  Street,  Russell  Square — Mrs.  Grubb's." 

"Right!     Webster?" 

"Johnson?     Kennedy?" 

"  Burke,  by  Jove,  Charnley  Burke !  Well,  upon  my  word ! 
How  are  you,  and  where  have  you  been  ever  since?  " 

"  George  Kennedy !  Back  in  Australia,  most  of  the  time. 
For  God's  sake  come  and  have  a  drink,  I'm  half  dead  of 
loneliness." 


98  P  AM 

A  few  minutes  later,  when  they  had  celebrated  their 
meeting,  and  Burke  was  on  the  point  of  returning  to  his 
hotel  to  announce  his  intention  of  staying  on  for  a  few 
days,  Sacheverel  remarked :  "  By  the  way,  I  forgot  to  tell 
you  that  when  I  went  on  the  stage — you  knew,  didn't  you, 
that  I  did  go  on  the  stage? — I  changed  my  name.  You 
have  heard,  probably,  of  Guy  Sacheverel,"  he  added  simply. 

Burke  started,  and  there  was  a  short  pause. 

"  You  are  Guy  Sacheverel !  Then  it  was  you — I  heard 
you  once,  as  Romeo,  in  Melbourne,"  he  went  on  with  a  loud 
laugh,  "  and  wondered  all  the  evening  who  the  deuce  you 
reminded  me  of !  " 

His  face  had  grown  a  shade  redder  in  his  embarrassment. 
So  it  was  George  Kennedy's  back  at  which  he  had  gazed  last 

night,  and  it  was  George  Kennedy "  I  saw  you  last 

night  at  the  opera,"  he  went  on  abruptly,  "  at  Cavalleria 
Rusticana" 

Sacheverel  nodded,  seeing  Burke's  confusion.  The  situa- 
tion held  nothing  new,  and  hence  nothing  awkward  for 
him.  He  and  Burke  had  for  a  short  time  been  pretty  close 
friends  years  ago,  and  nothing  now  seemed  more  natural 
to  him  than  to  go  on,  as  they  walked  out  into  the  sun: 
"  Yes,  we  have  a  little  villa  here,  on  the  Chambery  Road. 
I  see  you  know  the — the  turn  my  life  has  taken.  You  will 
think  me  very  fortunate  when  you  have  met  Pauline.  Dine 
with  us  to-morrow !  " 

And  that  was  all. 

Burke's  heart,  when  he  got  out  of  his  fiacre  the  next 
evening  and  pulled  the  rusty  bell-wire  of  the  Villa  Orchidee, 
beat  loudly  in  his  great  breast. 

He  had  even  yet  not  quite  got  his  bearings  regarding 
the  woman  with  whom  he  had  fallen  so  violently  in  love, 
and  George  Kennedy.  The  one  surprise  had  followed  so 
closely  on  the  other,  bringing  his  bitter  disdain  of  the 


P  AM  99 

woman  who  had  disappointed  him  to  so  sudden  a  halt 
that  his  brain  still  whirled. 

Sacheverel's  manner  had  revealed  much  to  the  not  un- 
observant Australian,  but  he  had  not  yet  had  time  to  com- 
pletely readjust  his  ideas  about  Pauline  Yeoland. 

The  thought  of  Pam,  also,  not  unnaturally  troubled  him. 
If  the  child  had  told  her  adventure,  the  consequences  were 
bound  to  be  more  or  less  unpleasant. 

All  these  things  whirled  through  his  mind  as  he  stood 
waiting  for  an  answer  to  his  ring,  and  then,  as  the  door 
opened,  admitting  him  to  a  little  green  garden  at  the  far 
end  of  which  Pauline  in  a  white  gown  was  standing  with 
Sacheverel,  Burke  suddenly  knew  that  Pam  had  not  told, 
and  would  not  tell.  "  It  would  cut  both  ways,"  he  reflected 
hurriedly  as  he  went  up  the  path.  "  It  was  a  hideous  thing 
for  a  child  to  do." 

And  he  was  right;  Pam  had  not  told. 

When  a  few  minutes  later  the  little  party  of  three  went 
into  the  house  on  the  announcement  of  dinner,  she  rose 
from  a  deep  chair  in  which  she  had  been  curled,  reading, 
and  coming  forward,  acknowledged  her  father's  introduction 
of  Burke  with  a  calm  indifference  that  amused  him  to  the 
point  of  a  vehement  regret  that  no  one  was  present  who 
could  share  the  joke  with  him. 

The  dinner  was  a  charming  one,  served  in  a  rather  bare 
room  with  faded  frescoes  on  the  ceiling  and  walls.  Three 
long  windows  opened  to  the  greenness  of  the  garden;  flow- 
ers were  banked  on  tables  between  the  windows  and  grace- 
fully massed  on  the  dining-table ;  the  light,  well-cooked  meal 
was  perfectly  served;  and  Pauline  more  beautiful  even, 
with  her  bare  arms  and  shoulders,  than  he  had  pictured 
her. 

The  man  was  too  much  in  love  to  realise  as  yet  anything 
but  the  supreme  fact  of  being  with  the  woman  he  loved, 


ioo  P  A  M 

and,  carried  to  the  seventh  heaven  by  that  fact,  he  outdid 
himself  in  clever  talk  and  well-told  anecdotes. 

Finding  that  his  entertainers  knew  of  and  cared  for  so- 
called  society  topics  as  little  as  he  himself,  that  Pauline's 
share  in  the  conversation  was  a  very  small  one,  and  that 
Sacheverel  was  interested  in  hearing  about  the  changes  that 
had  taken  place  in  Australia  since  his  visit  there  years  ago, 
Burke  turned  with  relief  to  the  subject  he  knew  and  loved 
best — life  in  that  country. 

Owning  himself  vast  tracts  of  grazing  land,  and  having 
made  his  money  in  the  old-fashioned  story-book  way,  by 
raising  cattle  and  by  finding  gold,  he  told  the  story  suc- 
cinctly and  well. 

His  strange  accent,  the  occasional  dialect  words  he  used, 
the  light  in  his  big,  prominent  eyes,  contrasting  so  strangely 
with  the  strong  repose  of  his  great  figure — all  these  things 
charmed  Pam,  who  ate  hardly  any  dinner  as  she  sat  watch- 
ing her  vis-a-vis. 

Once  only  she  interrupted.  He  had  told  of  a  strike 
among  his  employees,  and  how  on  being  fired  at  by  the 
leader  he  had  turned  and  shot  him  down  where  he  stood. 

"  Did  he  die?  "  the  child  asked  breathlessly. 

Burke  laughed. 

"  Yes,  when  I  shoot  a  man  he  dies." 

He  was  clothed  as  all  men  were  clothed,  he  was  educated 
as  well  as  many,  he  was  a  millionaire  colonist  in  Europe 
on  a  vacation,  he  played  baccarat,  and  passed  his  time  as 
other  men  did.  But  he  was,  if  not  a  savage,  still  a  primi- 
tive, and  something  in  him  appealed  strongly  to  the  hitherto 
unstirred  instinct  in  the  child.  It  was  the  instinct  common 
to  all  women  who  have  the  necessary  temperament  and 
charm  to  influence  men,  to  study  and  experiment  with  the 
man  who,  for  the  moment  at  least,  interests  them. 

"  I  wish,"  the  child  thought,   peeling  an  almond   deftly 


P  A  M  101 

with  her  long  brown  fingers,  "  that  it  was  me  he  was  in 
love  with." 

There  was  in  her  mind,  perfectly  childish  as  yet  in  her 
lack  of  understanding  of  the  meaning  of  the  strange  things 
she  knew,  no  morbid  idea  of  being  herself  in  love  with 
Burke.  It  was  merely  that  she  realised  his  difference  from 
most  men,  and  that  his  great  strength,  and  something  in 
his  eyes,  impressed  her  all  unconsciously  with  a  desire  to 
know  him  better.  Pauline  listened  with  sweet  careless  in- 
terest to  the  stories  Burke  told.  She  rather  enjoyed  him, 
but  that  was  as  far  as  she  ever  got  with  any  one. 

Pilgrim's  insight  was  not  at  fault  when  that  unfortunate 
victim  of  a  social  system  told  Cazalet  that  Pauline  loved 
Sacheverel  so  completely  that  she  hardly  even  noticed  the 
people  who  worshipped  her.  For  Burke  was  by  no  means 
the  first  man  who  had  allowed  himself  the  luxury  of  falling 
in  love  with  Sacheverel's  mistress.  It  is  probable,  too,  that 
travelling  about  as  they  did  and  meeting  all  sorts  of  men, 
and  of  all  nations,  more  than  one  of  them  might  have  tried 
to  win  her  from  Sacheverel,  had  not  her  perfectly  unaffected 
disregard  of  their  sighs  and  hints  convinced  them  that  such 
an  attempt  would  have  been  as  laughable  as  to  seriously 
make  love  to  the  moon. 

So  when  Pauline  handed  the  big  Australian  his  coffee 
a  little  later  in  the  garden  and  her  hand  touched  his,  his 
start  and  flush  were  noticed  not  by  herself,  nor  yet  by  Sache- 
verel, but  by  Pam,  who  stood,  her  monkey  in  her  arms, 
under  a  lime-tree  by  her  father. 

The  unobservant  are  usually  looked  on  by  those  who  ob- 
serve them  more  or  less  in  the  light  of  children,  so  Pamvs 
motherly  feelings  as  she  turned  from  Pauline's  blindness 
to  flash  a  look  that  weighed  between  sympathy  and  amuse- 
ment at  Burke,  was  not  unusual  in  itself. 

When  the  child  had  withdrawn  unobtrusively,  and  gone 


102  P  A  M 

into  the  house,  Burke  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  Her  deep  dark 
eyes  were  too  keen  for  him  to  be  comfortable  under  their 
gaze,  and  he  preferred  not  to  have  them  fixed  on  him. 

The  evening  passed  pleasantly  enough,  and  proved  but  the 
first  of  many  such. 

Occasionally  they  were  varied  by  Sacheverel  and  Pauline, 
and  once  in  a  while  Pam  as  well,  dining  at  the  Casino  with 
Burke,  but  the  Australian  preferred  the  quiet  meetings  at 
the  Villa,  for  the  curiosity  of  those  who  did  not  know  the 
history  of  this  beautiful  woman,  with  her  unmistakable  air 
of  breeding,  was  almost  as  offensive  to  him  as  were  the  os- 
tentatious cuts  of  her  old  acquaintances  and  the  free  and 
easy  admiration  of  the  men  who  saw  in  her  merely  one  of 
a  class  to  which  her  manners  were  superior. 

Her  own  utter  indifference  to  all  the  several  kinds  of 
attention  to  which  she  was  subjected  puzzled  the  Australian 
at  first,  but  as  time  went  on  and  he  found  himself  continu- 
ally forgetting  that  she  was  not  Sacheverel's  wife,  he  began 
to  take  it  for  granted  almost  as  much  as  she  did. 

Sacheverel's  attitude,  however,  remained  a  mystery  to 
him,  until  one  day  the  ex-opera-siager  explained  it  to  him 
in  a  casual  phrase  evoked  by  a  vivid  monosyllable  on  Burke's 
part  regarding  the  insolent  staring  of  a  Frenchman  obviously 
of  the  rastaquouere  class. 

"  I  can't  pull  his  nose  and  fight  him,  can  I  ?  "  Sacheverel 
returned.  "And  if  I  could,  what  good  would  it  do?  The 
fact  that  she  is  not  my  wife  is  all  that  those  beggars  can 
see,  and  that  can't  be  denied.  You  can  see  for  yourself  that 
we  are  the  happiest  man  and  woman  in  the  world,  and  for 
our  great  happiness  that  kind  of  thing,  which  is  the  price 
we  pay,  is  a  very  modest  price."  And  Burke  began  to  un- 
derstand. 

Pam  bored  him.  She  was  too  clever  to  venture  to  try  to 
sound  him  about  his  feelings,  but  she  watched  him  with  a 


P  A  M  103 

clear,  unfaltering  gaze  that  got  on  his  nerves,  and  more  than 
once  made  him  frown  savagely  at  her. 

Only  once  she  spoke  to  him  about  her  mother,  and  that 
one  time  it  was  he  who  created  the  opportunity  by  asking, 
"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  me?  " 

Quick  to  seize  the  chance  she  returned,  "  I  think  of  you?  " 

"  Yes.  You  stare  at  me  like  a  confounded  little  Hindoo 
idol;  I  suppose  you're  thinking  of  me." 

She  smiled  at  the  tone  of  his  voice.  "  I'm  sorry  to  have 
made  you  cross.  I  was  only  wondering  whether  you  are 
still  in  love  with  my  mother." 

The  blood  rushed  to  his  face.  "  And  what  conclusion 
have  you  come  to  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  she  returned,  "  that  you  are." 


CHAPTER  III 


TWO  years  had  passed  by;  Burke  had  spent  a  winter  in 
Paris,  and  one  in  Italy,  stopping  two  or  three  times  at  Villa 
Arcadie,  and  passing  the  first  of  the  summers  yachting  about 
Norway,  with  Sacheverel  and  Pauline  as  his  guests,  and  now, 
the  second  summer,  they  were  all  back  at  Aix. 

Burke  had  amused  himself  in  Paris  and  in  Rome;  he 
was  no  romanticist  to  fly  all  the  attainable  pleasures  for  the 
sake  of  the  far-off  and  unattainable  good.  He  had  lived 
comfortably,  and  at  the  modern  automobile  rate;  he  had 
learnt  that  there  are  few  things,  whatever  moralists  may  say, 
that  money  cannot  bring  to  a  healthy  man  who  is  still 
young,  and  in  consequence  of  his  long  years  passed  in  com- 
parative solitude  he  was  not  blase.  So  his  doings  were 
chronicled  as  those  of  a  distinctly  gay  bachelor,  and  tales 
were  told  which  need  not  be  repeated  here. 

These  things,  however,  did  not  alter  the  fact  that  he  still 
loved  Pauline,  though  time  had  cooled  the  fire  of  that  love. 
At  any  time  he  would  have  done  anything  in  the  world 
for  her,  though  he  had  never  put  the  fact  into  words  either 
to  himself  or  to  her. 

He  had  come  from  London  that  morning,  and  as  he 
walked  along  the  shady  road  towards  the  villa,  perfectly 
dressed  as  usual,  and  in  some  indefinable  way  looking  more 
civilised  than  of  old,  he  realised  that  his  joy  in  seeing 
Aer  had  lost  it  old  vibrant  quality,  and  gained  a  delightful 
note  of  peacefulness.  Antonio,  now  putting  on  a  little 
flesh,  and  in  a  new  livery,  opened  the  door  and  greeted 

104 


P  A  M  105 

him  with  all  the  cordiality  of  an  Italian  who  has  served 
long  enough  in  a  family  to  feel  himself  an  integral  part 
of  it. 

The  garden  was  trim  and  bright  with  flowers;  new 
awnings  shaded  the  windows,  and  under  the  lime-tree  stood 
several  comfortable-looking  basket  chairs  and  a  table. 

"La  Signora  is  out,"  the  servant  told  him  with  a  sym- 
pathetic gesture,  "  and  il  signore;  but  the  signorina  is  there, 
under  the  tree." 

Burke  went  slowly  over  the  grass  towards  the  lime-tree. 
He  had  not  seen  Pam  for  over  a  year,  as  she  had  been  ill 
on  the  occasion  of  his  last  visit  to  Villa  Arcadie,  and  he 
was  not  particularly  desirous  of  seeing  her  now.  However, 
there  she  was. 

She  was  reading,  her  head  leaning  against  a  yellow  linen 
pillow,  and  on  hearing  his  approach  looked  up  leisurely. 

When  she  recognised  him,  however,  she  dropped  her  book 
and  rose  quickly. 

"You!  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  she  cried,  shaking  hands 
with  him.  "  Come  and  sit  down  in  the  shade.  Father  and 
mother  are  off  somewhere,  as  usual." 

He  sat  down  and  threw  his  hat  on  the  grass. 

"  You've  changed,"  he  began  suddenly. 

"  Haven't  I?     How  do  you  like  my  hair?  " 

There  was  not  the  slightest  coquetry  in  her  manner  as  she 
turned  and  presented  to  him  a  back  view  of  her  small  head, 
which  was  completely  covered  with  a  net-work  of  broad 
flat  plaits. 

"  By  Jove!     It's  famous.     How  old  are  you,  Pam?  ' 

"  Nearly  seventeen.  Long  skirts,  you  see.  It's  great 
fun.  It  amuses  mother  and  father  almost  to  death.  Imagine 
those  two — turtle-doves — with  a  grown  daughter !  " 

Burke  nodded.  "  It  does  seem  rather  a  joke.  Are  they 
both  well?" 


106  P  A  M 

"  They  are  always  well,  you  know.  Father  is  growing 
a  little  bald,  poor  dear — and  so  are  you!  Poor  old  gentle- 
men!" 

Burke  felt  a  slight  twinge  of  irritation.  "  Your  father 
is  four  years  older  than  I." 

"  I  know.  That  makes  you  forty.  Are  you  going  to  be 
here  all  summer?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  It  depends  chiefly  on  them.  The  yacht 
is  in  commission " 

"  I  never  think  of  the  yacht  without  cursing  you,"  the 
girl  returned,  laughing.  "  It  was  horrid  of  you  to  make  me 
stay  at  Blankenbergh  that  summer.  How  I  hated  it;  and 
what  a  life  I  led  poor  Pilly!  I  don't  see  how  you  had  the 
heart  to  not  ask  us !  " 

"  I  didn't  want  you,  my  dear.  Children  are  sometimes  a 
nuisance." 

"  Oh,  I  was,  of  course,  I  know.  Only  I  had  been  very 
square  to  you  about  a  certain  incident,  and  I  do  think  I 
deserved  some  recompense." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  really  directly  referred  to 
their  first  conversation  together. 

"  Nonsense — you'd  have  caught  it  if  you  had  told." 

"  If  I  had  wished  to  tell,  you  don't  suppose  I'd  have 
minded  '  catching  it '  ?  One  has  only  to  choose  the  lesser 
evil,  or  rather  the  greater  pleasure,  and  let  everything 
else  go!" 

"  That's  true,"  he  returned,  struck  by  the  philosophy  of 
her  observation ;  "  but  they'd  have  been  awfully  angry  with 
you." 

"  And  with  you?  " 

Her  eyes  were  solemn,  but  her  tone  quizzical. 

"  Ancient  history,  all  that.  And  I'm  not  the  first  man, 
I'm  sure,  to  whom  the  same  thing  has  happened." 

"  Of   course   not ;   but   you   are   the   only   one   who  has 


P  A  M  107 

had  the  advantage  of  getting  his  information  straight  from 
one  of  the  family.  Well,  I'll  not  bore  you;  I  am  an 
exceedingly  amiable  young  person !  " 

"Are  you?     I  doubt  it." 

"  I  am,  though.  By  the  way,  guess  who  is  here  ?  IK 
Aix,  I  mean  ?  " 

Burke  had  no  idea,  and  said  so. 

"  My  aunt,  Mrs.  Maxse,  and  my  cousin  Ratty.  You 
have  heard  of  them.  I  saw  them  yesterday." 

"No!" 

"  Yes.  Poor  Aunt  Rosamund  was  very  kind  to  me.  I 
am  going  to  have  tea  with  her  to-morrow.  They  are  at  the 
Splendide." 

"  Has  your  mother  seen  her?  "  asked  Burke. 

"  Oh,  no !  Mother  wouldn't ;  she  has " — the  girl 
paused  and  then  went  on  with  a  little  smile — "  cast  off  her 
family,  you  know." 

"  But  I  should  think  she  would  like  to  see  her  only  sister," 
insisted  the  man  gently,  for  in  his  mind  an  ideal  woman  must 
love  her  sister.  Pam  looked  at  him,  her  eyes  suddenly  full 
of  the  old  monkey-look  as  the  sun  shone  into  their  dark 
depths.  "  Do  you  remember  the  woman  in  the  Bible  ? 
1  Whither  thou  goest  I  will  go ;  and  where  thou  lodgest  I  will 
lodge,  and  thy  people  shall  be  my  people ' ;  that  always 
reminds  me  of  mother.  Now  that  I  am  older,  you  under- 
stand? And  that  is  why  she  does  not  care  to  see  Aunt 
Rosamund." 

"But  it  is  unjust;  it  is  cruel.  You  know  that  for  me 
there  is  no  one  on  earth  like  your  mother,"  Burke  went  on 
earnestly;  "but  still,  according  to  the  laws  of  society,  she 
did  wrong;  and  if  your  aunt  can  forget  that  and  forgive 
her •" 

"  Mother  ought  to  be  grateful  and  kiss  her  hand !  But 
you  see,  mother  does  not  think  that  she  did  wrong,  and  slv= 


108  P  A.  M 

does  not  feel  grateful!  Oh,  let's  talk  about  something 
else!" 

Burke  nodded,  half  relieved  to  get  back  out  of  the  impasse 
whither  her  unexpected  raid  into  the  realms  of  Scripture 
had  led  him,  and  half  curious  to  hear  more  of  her  opinion 
on  the  subject. 

"  Of  course  she  did  give  up  a  great  deal ;  everything  that 
makes  a  woman's  life  pleasant." 

"  Rubbish,  Mr.  Burke !  There  is  only  one  thing  that 
makes  a  woman's  life  happy,  and  that  is  the  thing  she  took. 
And  having  taken  it,  and  found  it  better  than  all  the  rest 
put  together,  would  you  have  her  pretend  to  be  sorry?  As 
if  a  minute  with  father  wasn't  worth  a  million  years  with 
poor  Aunt  Rosamund." 

She  had  risen  in  her  vehemence,  and  he  saw  how  she  had 
grown,  and  how  the  lines  of  her  figure  had  softened  and 
improved. 

As  he  looked  at  her  some  one  came  up  to  them,  unseen 
by  both  until  close  at  hand. 

"  What's  that  about  a  million  years  with  mother?  " 

Pam  turned.  "  Ratty!  You  here !  Just  like  you  to  come 
creeping  on  one  like  that.  Mr.  Burke,  my  cousin  De  Rat- 
tree  Maxse." 

Pam  sat  down  again  with  youthful  suddenness  as  she 
spoke,  and  emptied  the  next  chair  of  its  books  and  papers. 

"  Sit  down,  Ratty.     How's  Aunt  Rosamund  to-day?  " 

"  Pretty  fit.  I  say,  Pam,  this  is  a  jolly  little  bungalow 
you've  got  here."  Ratty  looked  around  with  an  approval 
not  altogether  innocent  of  patronage.  He  was  a  fat  youth 
with  soft  dimpled  hands  and  a  budding  moustache. 

Pam  laughed.  "  Nothing  like  Monks'  Yeoland,  but  not 
bad  for  people  in  a  small  way.  Will  you  have  some  tea? 
I  wonder  what  time  it  is !  " 

It  was  nearly  five,  as  two  watches  simultaneously  proved. 


P  A  M  109 

"  Ratty,  if  you'll  go  in  at  that  window  to  the  right  of 
the  door  and  ring  the  bell  on  the  left  of  the  sideboard,  some 
one  will  come." 

The  young  man  obeyed,  and  a  few  minutes  later  Pam 
was  pouring  tea  in  a  casual  way  that  had  in  it  something 
of  boyishness  and  was  rather  attractive. 

"  We  won't  wait  for  father  and  mother,"  she  observed, 
pouring  hot  water  into  the  pot ;  "  they  expected  to  be  back 
for  tea,  but  that  is  not  saying  that  they  wilj  turn  up  for 
dinner  even — as  you  know,"  she  added  to  Burke.  "  Are  you 
going  to  the  play  to-night?  " 

"  I  don't  know ;  are  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  Madame  Ravaglia  is  staying  with  us,  did 
I  not  tell  you?" 

"Ravaglia?    Here!" 

Ratty's  utterance  was  somewhat  impeded  by  bread  and 
butter,  but  bread  and  butter  could  not  conceal  the  horror 
in  his  voice,  and  his  eyes  bulged  eloquently. 

"  Ravaglia !  Here !  If  you  are  afraid  of  meeting  her 
you  had  better  trek,  my  dear  boy,  for  she  might  come  out 
for  some  tea,  though  I  doubt  it."  Pam  smiled  at  him,  and 
her  amusement  was  genuine. 

"  But — hang  it,  Pam !  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that — 
or  rather  I  suppose  you  don't  know,"  he  added  pompously. 
"  Men  hear  such  things  more  than  girls." 

"  Nonsense !  Of  course  I  know.  And  not  a  button  do  I 
care.  I  love  Madame  Ravaglia." 

The  fat  boy  rose.  "  Well,  upon  my  word,  I  should  think 

my  aunt "  he  began  angrily,  but  she  interrupted  him 

with  authority. 

"  Don't  be  absurd,  Ratty!  And  remember  you  are  in  the 
house,  or  rather  in  the  garden,  of  people  who  dare  to  do 
as  they  choose.  We  are  not  afraid  of  a  great  artist's  repu- 
tation." 


no  P  A  M 

"  Afraid?  Who  is?  Only  there  is  such  a  thing  as  pro- 
pi  iety,  and  there  is  another  called  impropriety;  and  for 
a  young  girl  of  your  age " 

Pam  looked  at  him  with  a  curious  expression  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  forget  that  I  am  not  an  ordinary  young  girl.  My 
parents  are  not  married,  and  there  is  no  regular,  ready-made 
position  for  me  in  the  world,  so  I  shall,  thank  God,  be  able 
to  make  my  own  position.  So  either  go  home  and  keep 
mum  about  where  you've  been,  or  else  sit  down  and  drink 
your  tea  like  a  sensible  boy." 

Burke  had  listened  so  surprised  as  to  be  almost  aghast. 
On  the  rare  occasions  when  he  had  thought  of  Pam,  he 
had  taken  it  for  granted  that  her  childish  eyes  would  one 
day  be  violently  opened ;  that  a  casual  word  or  some  direct 
unkindness  would  teach  her  with  cruel  suddenness  the  truth 
she  had  just  so  clearly  put  before  her  lubberly  young  cousin. 

And  now  the  calm  unconcern  with  which  she  had  stated 
the  case  showed  him  that  the  process  had  most  mercifully 
been  made  a  gradual  one;  that  her  father  and  mother,  too 
engrossed  in  each  other  to  take  any  definite  course  j'egarding 
her,  had  unwittingly  done  the  wisest  thing  by  leaving  nothing 
to  surprise  her.  Having  known  all  her  life  that  her  parents 
stood  to  each  other  in  unusual  relation,  but  soothed  always 
by  the  spectacle  of  their  perfect  happiness,  the  young  girl  now 
found  herself  looking  at  life  from  the  one  view-point  whence 
it  could  to  her  look  calm  and  tranquil. 

The  big  man  heaved  a  sigh  of  surprised  relief. 

Pam's  small  face  was  full  of  a  strange  dignity1,  for  she 
faced  the  world  not  as  a  suppliant,  nor  as  an  enemy,  but 
rather  as  a  sincere,  self-respecting  atheist  faces  those  who 
believe  in  the  God  he  has  forsaken.  She  and  the  world 
disagreed,  but  politely,  without  bitterness,  for  she  felt  none 
of  that  inferiority  which  engenders  hatred. 

Ratty  watched  her  for  a  moment  in  dumb  indignation. 


P  A  M  111 

"  It's  a  great  shame  they  aren't  married,  then !  "  he  burst 
out  at  length,  setting  down  his  cup  and  brushing  a  crumb 
from  his  skin-tight  waistcoat. 

Burke  gave  an  angry  start,  but  to  his  surprise  Pam  burst 
into  a  merry  laugh.  "  Just  go  and  bowstring  the  obstacle, 
will  you,  then?  Pilly  always  calls  her  the  Obstacle!  " 


CHAPTER  IV 


THERE  is  a  certain  road  leading  into  the  mountains  from 
Aix  that  winds  slowly  up  through  very  beautiful  scenery, 
clinging  to  the  rocky  hill  as  if  shrinking  from  the  steep  slope 
on  the  other  side,  until  at  length  it  makes  a  loop  through  a 
wall  of  solid  stone  and  ends  in  a  small  round  platform  from 
which  is  to  be  had  the  finest  view  in  the  country-side,  save 
one  to  be  reached  only  by  a  funicular.  One  afternoon  about 
a  week  after  the  conversation  recorded  in  the  last  chapter, 
Pam  and  Charnley  Burke  were  sitting  on  the  stone  wall  that 
edges  the  belvidere,  looking  down  at  the  purple  and  golden 
panorama  spread  before  them. 

"  Ripping  view,  isn't  it  ?  "  the  girl  asked  mechanically, 
taking  off  her  hat  and  dropping  it  with  safety  behind  her. 

"Corking!  Do  you  come  up  here  often?  It's  rather  a 
pull,  you  know." 

"  For  fat  people,  yes,  and  you  are  putting  on  a  bit  of 
flesh,"  she  returned,  with  a  critical  glance  at  his  admirably 
got-up  figure,  "  Pilly  and  I  are  lean  kine,  so  we  don't 
mind." 

"  Pilly!  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  drag  that  unfortu- 
nate female  all  these  miles,  Pam?  I  call  that  brutal." 

"  It  is  rather,  but  I  have  to  walk,  you  see,  and  I've  got  no 
one  else.  When  we  get  here,  she  sits  down  on  the  bench 
with  her  back  to  all  this,"  jerking  her  head  towards  the 
view,  "  and  plays  patience.  It's  a  sweet  sight." 

Burke  burst  out  laughing.  "  And  you,  you  little  devil, 
sit  and  laugh  at  her !  " 


P  A  M  113 

"  I  don't  mind  a  bit  being  called  a  '  little  devil ' — it's 
really  rather  nice,  you  know,  though  I'm  sure  I've  no  idea 
why — and  you  do  mind  being  called  fat.  So  try  again !  " 

She  looked  at  him  solemnly,  swinging  her  feet  as  she 
spoke. 

"  I  could  make  you  angry  in  a  moment  if  I  chose,"  he 
answered,  wiping  the  moisture  from  his  rather  bare  temples 
with  a  smart  blue  and  white  handkerchief. 

"  Then  do." 

"  Well,  do  you  happen  to  know  that  you  look  a  good 
deal  like  Caliban  at  times?  " 

She  stopped  swinging  her  feet  and  reflected  for  a  moment. 
"  Yes,  I  know  I  do.  Cally  has  very  fine  eyes,  don't  you 
think  so?"  She  raised  her  own,  golden  in  the  strong  sun- 
light, to  his  as  she  spoke,  sombre  and  weary  in  expression. 

"Fine  eyes!  You  are  a  limb.  Well,  yes,  I  must  admit 
that  much,  I  suppose." 

"  But  you  mean  we  have  no  colour  and  no  dimples.  That's 
true.  Only  I  don't  think  Cal  would  look  well  with  pink 
cheeks  and  dimples,  do  you?  " 

Then  she  burst  out  laughing.  "Aren't  I  silly?  But  you 
know,  or  rather  you  don't  know,  that  it  is  quite  impossible 
to  hurt  my  feelings  about  my  looks.  I  know  I'm  plain." 

He  rose  and  came  to  her,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  It  had 
suddenly  come  home  to  him  that  she  would  not  only  be  much 
less  attractive  with  the  pink  cheeks  and  other  adornments  in 
question,  but  also  that  she  was  very  nearly  grown  up. 

"  Plain,  are  you?  Well,  yes,  I  suppose  you  are,"  he  said 
slowly,  studying  her  cool  little  brown  face  with  his  promi- 
nent eyes.  "  I  don't  think,  however,  that  it's  going  to 
matter  much." 

"Matter!     No,  of  course  not." 

She  spoke  with  so  much  earnestness  that,  though  she  was 
obviously  far  away  from  him  mentally,  he  went  on  with  a 


114  P  A  M 

delightful  sense  of  beginning  an  exploration  in  a  totally  un- 
discovered country. 

"  How  do  you  mean  '  of  course  not '  ?  " 

"  I  mean  just  what  you  said.  Looks  don't  much'  matter. 
I  mean  beauty  doesn't." 

"  Most  people  think  that  they  matter  more  than  anything 
else,  my  dear." 

"  Most  people  are  donkeys." 

Burke  sat  down  by  her.  "  You  are  speaking,  I  take  it, 
of  looks  in  relation  to  one's — a  woman's  success  in  life  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  how  do  you  know  then  that  they  don't  matter?  " 

She  turned,  staring  at  him  as  if  he  had  just  come.  "  Oh, 
dear  me,  what  on  earth  are  you  gibbering  about?  I  only 
meant  that  will  is  what  does  things." 

"Will?" 

"  Yes,"  she  hurried  on  impatiently.  "  Success  is  surely 
having  one's  own  way,  isn't  it?  Well,  any  one  with  will 
enough  can  do  anything — if  she  hasn't  white  eye-lashes." 

"  Eye-lashes!  My  dear  Pam,  what  a  jump  from  abstract 
thoughts  on  will-power!  " 

"  Well,  it  does  count.  You  know  you  like  me  better,  to 
use  the  nearest  illustration,  than  if  I  had  watery,  greenery, 
grey  eyes  and  stumpy  white  eye-lashes.  Don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  do,  but— 

"  There  isn't  any  but.  You  either  do  or  you  don't.  And 
when  I  look  at  you  hard  you  forget  that  I  look  like  a  mon- 
key, don't  you  ?  " 

Before  he  could  answer  she  went  on :  "  Now,  let's  talk 
about  something  else.  I  hate  long  drawn  out  discus- 
sions." 

"  As  your  eye-lashes  are  neither  stumpy  nor  white,  I  per- 
force obey.  What  shall  I  talk  about,  She  Who  Must  Be 
Obeyed?" 


P  A  M  115 

The  girl  turned  and  looked  at  him  curiously.  He  had 
never  before  spoken  to  her  as  to  a  grown  woman,  and  she 
recognised,  while  she  could  not  explain,  the  difference. 

"  For  God's  sake!  let  us  sit  upon  the  ground  and  tell  sad 
stories  of  the  deaths  of  kings." 

He  stared,  and  she  burst  out  laughing. 

"  You  are  a  badly  educated  person,  Mr.  Charnley  Burke, 
of  our  loyal  colony,  Australia!  Thought  I  was  being  origi- 
nal, didn't  you?  " 

"  I  did — but  I  suppose  it  is  Shakespeare?  As  a  subject 
of  conversation,  how  will  this  do?  Your  graceful  young 
cousin  is  in  love  with  you." 

"  Oh — Ratty  and  Love !  Such  a  great  fat,  tubby  boy. 
Isn't  it  loathsome  of  him?  Of  course  he  was  bound  to  do 
it,  you  know,"  she  went  on  without  the  slightest  embarrass- 
ment. "  Boys  always  do  with  the  one  person  they  oughtn't. 
Imagine  Aunt  Rosamund's  feelings!  I  saw  it  coming  the 
nrst  day  I  had  tea  with  them  in  the  Splendide  gardens;  he 
was  so  absurd.  Poor  Aunt  Rosamund  was  dreadfully  upset 
until  I  told  her  that  wild  horses  couldn't  drag  me  to  marry 
a  man  with  hands  like  bath  buns." 

"  The  deuce !     You  didn't  say  that  ?  " 

"  But  I  did.  And  she  was  so  relieved,  poor  dear,  that 
she  quite  forgot  to  be  angry.  Since  I've  refused  to  see  him 
at  all,  she  is  consoled  and  thinks  me  the  nicest  person  in  the 
world.  Which  I  am,"  she  added  blandly,  looking  up  with 
a  smile  from  her  work  of  scratching  some  moss  off  a  stone 
with  her  hat-pin.  "  She  wrote  my  grandfather  that  I  was 
much  improved.  I  wonder  what  she  would  have  said  if  I 
had  appreciated  Ratty 's  charms !  " 

"  Probably  that  you  were  a  designing  little  wretch.  Pam, 
have  they  said  anything  more  about  Ravaglia?  " 

"Said  anything?  Well,  I  should  rather  think  they  had! 
I  had  a  long  letter  from  my  grandfather  the  other  day, 


116  P  A  M 

urging  me  to  '  drop  her.'  Imagine  me  dropping  Gemma 
Ravaglia!" 

"  There's  something  in  it,  though,  my  child." 

"Oh,  come  now;  you  too!  That  would  be  too  much. 
You  know  that  she  is  the  greatest  genius  of  the  century,  and 
that  I  adore  her." 

"  I  know.  At  the  same  time,  if  you  were  my 
daughter " 

Pam  rose  and  picked  up  her  hat.  "  Which,  thank 
Heaven,  I  am  not.  Let's  go,  shall  we?  We  are  dining  with 
you,  aren't  we  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Burke  said  no  more,  for  he  had  no  wish  to  make  him- 
self so  disagreeable  that  he  would  be  expelled  from  the 
undiscovered  country  just  within  whose  boundary  he  had 
to-day  penetrated.  They  walked  home  rather  silently,  and 
as  she  gave  him  her  hand  at  the  garden-door  the  young  girl 
said  suddenly :  "  Thanks  for  not  bothering  me  about  that. 
It  would  have  been  no  use,  for  only  one  thing  would  ever 
make  me  give  her  up." 

"And  that  one  thing?" 

"  That — she  should  give  me  up,  and  she  won't  give  me  up, 
for  she  is  fond  of  me ;  I  amuse  her." 

"  All  right,  I'll  not  say  any  more  about  it.  I  suppose  you 
have  a  right  to  do  as  you  like,"  he  returned. 

An  hour  or  two  later  Burke  met  his  guests  in  the  terrace 
of  the  Casino,  and  they  walked  together  towards  the  table 
he  had  engaged.  The  restaurant  was  very  full,  for  Ravaglia 
was  playing  Pia,  and  the  season  was  at  its  height. 

Pam,  looking  very  well  in  a  pink  frock,  darted  away  just 
as  she  was  on  the  point  of  sitting  down,  and  went  into  the 
corridor,  where  she  stood  talking  to  a  tall  woman  wrapped 
in  a  long  fur-trimmed  mantle. 

"  Ravaglia!  "  observed  Sacheverel,  rising  and  bowing  t* 


P  A  M 

a  passer-by,  who  had  been  born  in  Ratcliff  Highway,  but  was 
now  dressed  by  Worth.  "  The  child  is  mad  about  her." 

"  She  is  a  dear,  really,"  Pauline  added,  "  and  nearly  wild 
with  nerves  to-night.  Think  of  being  so  cold  that  you  have 
to  wear  sables  in  August!  " 

Pam  came  slowly  back  as  she  spoke.  "  Mother,  what's 
the  matter  with  Carissima?  She  has  been  crying,  and  looks 
like  death." 

Pauline  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  She  is  nervous,  dear, 
that's  all." 

But  the  young  girl  frowned  thoughtfully.  "  No,  it  isn't 
that.  She  is  unhappy  again,  my  poor  dearest !  " 

"  Geniuses  are  always  moody,"  laughed  Burke.  "  Oool 
look  at  those  emeralds!  That's  Fanchon — what's  her  name 
— the  little  woman  in  white  over  there  by  the  pillar.  And 
there  by  the  door,  to  the  left,  are  San  Gesualdo  and  his 
wife."  They  all  turned  and  looked  at  the  two  women  and 
the  man  to  whom  their  juxtaposition  was  so  well  known. 

"  His  wife  does  look  cheery,"  remarked  Pam.  "  Poor 
thing,  how  she  must  loathe  having  him  with  her  when  she 
knows  he's  dying  to  go  off  and  see  Fanchon !  " 

Burke  frowned  and  then  laughed.  "  How  do  you  know 
he  has  the  honour  of  Mademoiselle  Chose's  acquaintance, 
Miss  Pamela?  "  he  asked  teasingly. 

"  He  couldn't  very  well  have  given  her  those  emeralds 
without  knowing  her,  could  he  ?  " 

"  Hush,  Pam,  don't  say  such  things,"  urged  Pauline,  per- 
functorily, and  the  dinner  went  on. 

Toward  its  close  a  servant  brought  a  note  to  Pam.  "  De 
la  part  de  Madame  Ravaglia,  Mademoiselle." 

The  girl  tore  it  open  and  read  eagerly,  her  face  changing 
as  she  finished  it. 

"Oh,  mother!  She  doesn't  want  me  to  come!  To  the 
play,  I  mean.  To  Pia!  " 


118  P  A  M 

"  Not  want  you  to  come !    Why?    Let  me  see." 

"  Til  read  it — it's  badly  written  in  pencil.  '  Dearest 
Pam,'  she  read,  translating  the  words  into  English,  *  if  you 
love  me,  do  me  a  favour.  Do  not  come  to-night  to  the  play. 
I  could  not  act  if  you  were  there — G.  R.'  Oh,  what  can 
she  mean?" 

To  her  surprise,  and  obviously  rather  to  his  own  as  well, 
her  father  answered  her. 

"  I  think,  my  dear,  she  must  mean  that  the  play  is  not  a 
- — a  good  one  for  a  young  girl  to  see." 

"  A  good  one?     But  I've  seen  all  her  plays,  father!  " 

"  Not  this  one,"  insisted  Sacheverel  quietly,  his  dark  face 
unusually  grave.  "  And  I  think  that  she  is  very  probably 
right." 

Pam  rose.  "  I  must  go  and  see  her — now  don't  say  no, 
father,  because  I  must.  It  is  her  last  night  here,  too,  and 
she  has  been  crying.  Mr.  Burke  will  excuse  me." 

No  one  protested  forcibly,  and  she  left  the  restaurant  and 
going  down  a  narrow  corridor  soon  found  herself  at  the  door 
of  the  great  actress's  dressing-room. 

"  Son   io,  Pam." 

Madame  Ravaglia  sat  in  front  of  her  mirror,  while  her 
maid  gave  the  last  touches  to  her  curiously  arranged  hair. 
Pam  started  at  the  sight  of  her  face,  it  looked  so  old  and 
so  worn. 

"  I  won't  come,  of  course,  if  you  don't  want  me  to,"  she 
began  at  once,  "  but  you  must  tell  me  why." 

"Why?" 

The  actress  turned  to  her  and  answered  slowly  in  Italian, 
which  language  her  maid  did  not  understand.  "  Because 
I  could  not  let  my  daughter  see  such  a  play." 

"Your  daughter!     But  you  haven't  one!  "  cried  the  girl. 

"  Ah,  yes.  And  she  is  only  a  year  younger  than  you. 
Wait  until  Clarisse  has  gone,  and  I  will  tell  yo"  " 


P  A  M  119 

A  moment  later  they  were  alone,  and  sitting  down  on  a 
chaise-longue  Ravaglia  drew  Pam  close  to  her  and  began: 
"  My  daughter  is  in  Sicily,  dear,  in  a  convent.  She  does 
not  know  that  I  am  her  mother,  and  she  never  shall." 

"But  why  f 

"  Because  I  knew  that  the  knowledge  of  her  being  my  child 
would  hurt  her.  She  thinks  she  is  my  sister's  child.  My 
sister  is  a  good  woman." 

Pam  flushed,  a  soft  flush  of  tender  distress.  "  Oh !  but 
— you  are  great." 

"  Mothers  need  not  be  great,  my  dear,  but  they  must 
be  good.  When  I  met  you  first,  years  ago,  I  had  just  given 
her  up.  I  have  been  fonder  of  you  than  you  know,  Pam. 
I  had  shut  her  away  from  me  in  a  convent,  for  her  good. 

Now '  The  actress's  hot,  dry  hand  rested  on  the  girl's 

brow  as  she  pushed  back  her  soft  hair,  and  the  two  pairs  of 
eyes,  so  unlike  and  yet  so  alike,  gazed  steadily  into  each  other. 

"  Now?  "  asked  the  girl,  her  voice  shaking. 

"  I  cannot  shut  you  away  from  me,  but — I  can  go.  My 
engagement  ends  to-night,  and  to-morrow  I  leave  Aix.  I 
am — going  away  from  you." 

"  No,  no,  no!    I  won't  let  you,  Carissima!    I  love  you." 

The  girl  caught  at  her  hands  and  held  them  tightly.  "  I 
love  you,  I  refuse  to  be  disposed  of  in  this  way." 

Ravaglia  rose.  "  Don't  make  it  too  hard  for  me,  Pam. 
You  are  grown  now,  and  it  could  hurt  you — it  does  hurt 
you — to  be  known  as  my  friend.  The  boy,  Ratty,  who  was 
so  rude  to  me,  was  right.  It  is  the  world's  attitude." 

' '  Je  men  fiche  pas  mal ' — the  world.  What  is  it  to  me  ? 
I  have  no  place  in  it.  What  am  I  but  a — bastard  ?  " 

There  was  no  bitterness  in  her  voice,  rather  an  exultation 
in  the  fact  of  owing  nothing  to  any  one.  "  I  don't  care 
a  bit  for  what  the  world  says — I  owe  it  nothing !  " 

Ravaglia  came  to  her  and  laid   her  hand  on  the  girl's 


120  1>  A  M 

shoulder.  "  That  may  be  right,  Pam,  but  I  will  not  hurt 
you,  and  I  shall  never  see  you  again.  And  remember  this 
one  thing.  You  may  owe  nothing  to  the  world,  but  you 
owe  much  to  yourself,  and — to  one  other  person." 

A  travelling  clock  on  the  table  struck  eight,  and  the  woman 
glanced  at  it  impatiently. 

"  To  one  other  person  ?     To  whom  ?  " 

"  To  the  man  you  are  going  to  love,"  returned  Ravaglia, 
with  a  solemnity  in  her  beautiful  deep  voice  such  as  Pam 
had  never  heard. 

"  To  the  man  I  am  going  to  love  ?  " 

"  Yes.  When  he  comes,  he  will  have  a  right  not  only 
to  your  future,  but  to  every  moment  of  your  past  life.  That 
is  the  difference."  She  broke  off,  her  hollow  eyes  burning 
with  bitter  earnestness.  "  I  must  send  you  away  now.  Some 
day,  some  one  will  tell  you  my  story — my  real  one,  not  the 
one  fools  babble  about.  Then  you  will  understand.  Good- 
bye, Pam." 

Bending  over  the  girl's  slight  figure  in  its  simple  gown, 
the  woman  who  has  been  to  this  century  the  incarnation 
of  tragedy,  strangely  unreal  looking  in  her  mediaeval  gown 
of  green  and  gold,  did  a  strange  thing.  She  outlined  a  little 
cross  on  the  smooth  young  brow  before  she  kissed  it. 

"  Now  go  home,  my  child,  and  to  bed.  This  play  is  not 
for  you.  And — I  have  moved  into  the  hotel,  I  do  not  return 
to  the  villa.  Promise  me  not  to  try  to  see  me  again." 

"  I  promise.    But,  oh " 

"  Hush,  I  must  go.     Good-bye,  Pam.     Add'io" 

Pam  rushed  from  the  room  and  out  into  the  garden  by 
a  side  door.  She  had  forgotten  her  dinner,  the  sound  of 
that  one  word  Addio  rang  in  her  ears. 

Under  the  stars  she  stood  still,  in  a  lonely  alley  of  the 
garden.  "  'The  man  I  am  going  to  love,'  "  she  said  slowly,, 
aloud. 


CHAPTER  V 


"MY  DEAR  PAM :  I  am  having  a  vile  bout  of  gout;  your 
aunt  and  cousin,  my  natural  solaces,  are  away;  your  friend 
and  uncle,  Dick  Maxse,  is  shooting  in  Scotland.  I  am  a 
lonely  aged  man.  Will  you  come?  We  parted  somewhat 
unceremoniously,  and  some  time  has  elapsed  since  that,  but 
my  anger  never  had  any  staying  power,  and  I  want  you.  So 
come  and  amuse  me.  Bring  all  your  belongings,  for  if  you 
find,  as  the  housemaids,  I  believe,  put  it,  that  the  place  suits 
you,  I'd  like  you  to  stay  a  few  years  with  me. 

"  Your  affectionate 

"  GRANDFATHER." 

"  A  very  good  letter,  isn't  it  ? "  asked  Sacheverel,  as 
Burke  handed  it  back  to  him. 

"  Very.     Rather  ungrand  fatherly,  eh  ?  " 

"  Can  you  imagine  any  one  being  the  conventional  grand- 
father to  Pam?  I  am  hard  put  to  it,  very  often,  to  be 
simply  paternal."  The  two  men,  who  were  sitting  in  the 
garden  of  the  villa,  laughed  over  their  cigars. 

"  Pam  certainly  is  utterly  unlike  other  young  girls, 
Sacheverel." 

"  Very.  The  Yeolands  have  always  been  queer,  and  then 
of  course  her  environments  have  helped  to  make  her  what 
she  is." 

Burke  leaned  back  in  the  wicker  chair  that  looked  too 
fragile  for  his  great  frame,  and  stared  up  into  the  fresh 
green  of  the  lime-tree.  "  I  say,  Sacheverel,  what  do  you 
mean  to  do  with  her?  " 

121 


122  P  A  M 

"  Do  with  her?  My  dear  fellow,  I'm  sure  I  haven't 
the  slightest  idea!  What  would  you  advise?  " 

"  I  mean  she  is  grown  up  now,  and  men  will  soon  begin 
to  take  their  place — and  a  big  place,  too,  unless  I  am  very 
much  mistaken — in  her  life.  Do  you  want  her  to  marry?  " 

Sacheverel  smiled,  his  white  teeth  flashing  behind  his  dark 
lips. 

"  Now,  Burke,  really!  The  thermometer  must  be  twenty 
in  the  shade,  and  I  had  a  late  luncheon,  and  you  ask  me 
questions  like  that.  Let's  discuss  some  simpler  question — 
French  politics,  for  instance !  " 

Burke,  watching  him,  suddenly  felt  what  the  man's  charm 
must  be  to  Pauline  Yeoland.  It  lay  not  in  what  he  said,  but 
in  the  way  he  said  it.  Innate  gaiety  of  heart  is  such  a  rare 
thing,  and  here  it  was  combined  with  a  buoyant  irresponsi- 
bility, strong  passions,  and  a  sort  of  careless  truthfulness 
that  bubbled  up  of  itself  in  the  waters  of  his  nature. 

Pauline,  in  her  unmorality,  her  graceful  frivolity,  would 
have  been  bored  by  a  man  whose  qualities  were  built  on 
principles ;  hurt  and  wounded  by  one  who  was  false  or  harsh ; 
antagonised  by  one  who  strived  for  the  virtues  he  did  not 
possess. 

Sacheverel,  as  absolutely  natural  in  his  good  as  in  his 
bad  qualities,  was  probably  the  one  man  in  the  world  into 
whose  nature  her  own  could  have  fitted  as  does  a  key  in 
a  well-oiled  lock;  and  Burke,  who  was  himself  a  much 
stronger  man,  for  either  good  or  evil,  than  his  host,  and 
who  had  sometimes  wondered  what  lay  in  Sacheverel  which 
so  held  the  beautiful,  rather  silly  woman,  suddenly  knew 
by  a  shock  of  intuition,  as  Sacheverel  gaily  expressed  his 
unconcern  respecting  the  future  of  his  daughter,  what  it  was. 

"You  are  a  careless  beggar!"  the  Australian  growled, 
lighting  a  fresh  cigar  at  the  stump  of  his  old  one.  "  She's 
your  child,  after  all." 


P  A  M  123 

"  Of  course  she  is,  bless  her !  and  an  enchanting  young 
person,  too.  But  what's  the  use,  my  dear  fellow,  of  laying 
a  lot  of  plans  for  her  which  she'd  be  sure  to  demolish,  if 
only  out  of  devilment,  the  minute  she  ran  up  against 
'em?" 

"  I'm  not  asking  you  to  make  plans  actively.  I  merely 
wondered  whether  you  and  Pauline  wish  her  to  marry  or 
to — go  into  a  convent." 

"  Pam  in  a  convent !  Wouldn't  she  set  them  all  by  the 
ears?"  returned  Sacheverel,  with  a  chuckle.  "And — 
marry?  Oh,  yes,  I  daresay  she'll  marry  some  day.  I  wish 
you  were  ten  years  younger,  Burke." 

Burke  started.    "  I !    She  wouldn't  look  at  me !  " 

"  Probably  not.  I  wish  she  would,  though.  She  is 
going  to  need  a  master,  for  she  is  very  headstrong.  Good 
Lord!  how  she  went  on  about  Gemma  Ravaglia!  I  swear 
I  thought  she'd  be  ill,  poor  little  monkey !  " 

"  It  was  decent  of  Ravaglia,  though.  I  wonder  why  she 
did  it?" 

Sacheverel  hesitated.  "  I  don't  know,  mind  you,  but  I 
have  an  idea  Lord  Yeoland  put  her  up  to  it." 

"  Lord  Yeoland !     Does  she  know  him?  " 

"  Does  she  ?  My  respected  papa-in-law  a  la  main  gauche 
knows,  or  has  known,  every  one  worth  his  notice  for  the 
last  half  century.  She  told  me  years  ago  that  she  used  to 
see  a  good  deal  of  him  at  one  time.  Poor  soul,  she  was  very 
much  cut  up  about  giving  up  Pam.  Adoration  is  very 
pleasant,  and  my  young  lady  gives  it  with  both  hands." 

The  two  men  smoked  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes,  each 
of  them  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts. 

It  was  a  very  warm  day  in  early  September,  but  the  little 
garden  was  pleasant,  and  a  bird  sang  in  a  tree. 

After  a  while  Burke  said  slowly,  "  You  think  she'll  go 
to  England  ?  " 


124  P  A  M 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course  she  will.  The  old  man  is  very  fonc 
of  her;  this  is  the  second  letter  he  has  sent  since  she  took 
French  leave.  The  other  one  was  to  Pauline,  and  we  didn't 
mention  it  to  Pam,  as  we  wanted  her  to  go  on  with  her 
studies;  it  was  that  winter  in  Rome.  I  know  you  think  me 
a  heathen  Chinee  for  refusing  to  map  out  her  future  life,  but 
you  see  for  the  present  she  will  be  at  Yeoland  and  then — 
well,  she  quite  intends  doing  that  mapping  herself.  She's 
hard-headed." 

"  She's  also  hot-blooded." 

Sacheverei  stared.  "You  think  so?  Well,  no  doubt  she 
is.  I  hope  so,  I'm  sure.  Most  people  have  Mellin's  Food  in 
their  veins  nowadays." 

Burke  laughed.  "  Well,  she  hasn't.  And  I  hope  to  God 
she  will  fall  in  love,  when  the  time  comes,  with  some  decent 
fellow,  for  if  she  doesn't Here  she  is,"  he  added  hastily. 

Pam,  coming  out  of  the  dining-room  window  in  a  scant 
white  frock,  a  sun-bonnet  on,  and  Caliban  tucked  under  her 
arm,  looked  childish  enough  to  make  Burke  feel  rather 
sacrilegious. 

"  Bon  soir,  la  compagnie!  "  she  cried,  as  she  joined  them. 
"  I  can't  shake  hands  with  you  until  I've  put  down  the  box 
and  Cal.  How  are  you?  These  chocolates  are  a  good-bye 
offering  from  the  unfortunate  Fat  Boy.  His  mamma  allowed 
him  to  send  them  on  condition  of  not  coming  to  say  good- 
bye, I  suppose.  Won't  she  shriek  with  joy  when  she  arrives 
at  Monks'  Yeoland  and  finds  me  and  Pilly  nicely  installed 
there?" 

Opening  the  box  she  offered  of  its  contents  to  the  two 
men,  and  then  poked  about  in  it  with  a  pointed  fore-finger 
until  she  had  found  exactly  what  she  herself  wanted. 

"  If  I  have  a  weakness,  which  I  trust  you  are  both  too 
polite  to  admit,  it  is  for  pistachio  and  chocolate.  Cal 
prefers  noisette,  don't  you,  you  beauty?  " 


P  A  M  125 

Since  Burke's  telling  her  that  Caliban  looked  like  her, 
she  had  taken  great  pleasure  in  pointing  out  that  small  beast's 
good  looks  on  every  occasion. 

"  Well,"  she  went  on  briskly,  as  the  two  men  did  not 
speak,  but  watched  her  with  lazy  enjoyment,  "  what  do 
you  think  of  my  sun-bonnet?  I  made  it  myself.  If  you 
look  closely  you  will  see  that  it  is  adorned  with  much  gore 
— my  poor  finger  is  lacerated — but  I  think  the  bonnet  rather 
charming." 

Taking  off  the  quaint  little  head-dress  she  put  it  on  the 
monkey,  and  tied  the  strings  in  a  neat  bow  under  his 
chin. 

"  Observe  the  sweetness  of  that!  "  she  exclaimed,  turning 
the  little  creature  around.  "  Isn't  he  lovely?  Just  look 
how  it  increases  his  beauty!  " 

But  Caliban,  springing  from  her  knees,  ran  to  what  he 
considered  a  safe  distance  and  began  clawing  frantically 
at  the  offending  article,  and  using  language  in  his  shrillest 
voice.  Pam  flew  after  him,  and  when  he  hurried  away 
from  her,  still  chattering  profanely,  a  mad  chase  began 
round  and  round  the  little  enclosure,  in  which  the  girl 
ran  with  as  much  excitement  as  the  monkey,  and  with  as  little 
thought  of  personal  dignity.  At  length  she  cornered  him 
behind  a  thicket  of  rose-trees,  and,  calling  Burke  to  block 
one  exit,  crept  in  over  the  thick  grass  on  all  fours. 

After  a  violent  scuffle  and  burst  of  breathless  laughter 
she  emerged,  a  long  scratch  on  her  cheek,  one  of  her  plaits 
hanging  loose,  and  a  green  stain  on  her  frock. 

"  He's  bitten  a  great  hole  in  it,"  she  said  to  Burke,  as 
he  took  the  quivering  Caliban,  and  she  gathered  up  her  hair ; 
"  and  he  tried  to  bite  me,  the  little  demon !  There's  grati- 
tude for  you !  " 

"  He  has  paloitaticn  of  the  heart,  though,  poor  little 
beggarl" 


126  P  A  M 


Dropping  her  hair  and  the  corpus  delicti,  she  ran  to  him 
and  laid  an  anxious  hand  on  the  monkey's  small  breast. 

"  He  has.  How  it  beats!  Oh,  Mr.  Burke,  do  you  think 
he'll  die  ?  "  Her  big  eyes,  positively  tragic,  were  raised 
to  his. 

"  No,"  he  returned  a  little  unsteadily,  "  people  —  that  is, 
monkeys  —  don't  die  from  palpitation  of  the  heart.  Mine, 
for  instance,  is  pumping  like  the  devil,  this  very  moment." 

"  Yours?  But  you  didn't  run.  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  see 
whether  he  is  pale  or  not,"  she  added,  turning  to  the  monkey 
again. 

"  Damn  the  brute!  "  ejaculated  Burke  roughly,  "  you  care 
more  for  him  than  you  do  for  me." 

Her  hand,  still  on  the  monkey's  heaving  little  chest,  she 
turned  again  to  the  man,  a  slight  frown  drawing  her  strongly 
marked  brows  together.  He  was  breathing  hard,  and  his 
red-brown  eyes  looked  steadily  into  hers. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean  ?  "  he  said  at  length  abruptly. 

A  little  smile  stirred  her  lips  and  the  frown  disappeared. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  returned,  as  frank  as  he, 

"  And  it  amuses  you  !  " 

"  No.  I  don't  want  to  give  you  palpitation  of  the 
heart,  but  do  you  really  mean  it  ?  Because  if  you  do,  I  must 
be  grown-up  !  " 

He  burst  out  laughing,  as  he  had  laughed  long  ago  in  the 
Casino  garden. 

"Well,  am  I  not?"  she  persisted.  "If  I  weren't,  you 
wouldn't  look  at  me  like  that." 

"  Got  that  brute,  have  you  ?  "  Sacheverel  came  saunter- 
ing towards  them  as  he  spoke,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"Yes,"  called  Burke,  adding  under  his  breath  to  Pam, 
41  Of  course  you  are,  and  you  know  it." 


PART    III 
CHAPTER  I 


lEN  days  later  Pam  and  Pilgrim  were  once  more  driven 
up  the  avenue  at  Monks'  Yeoland.  The  young  girl  sat  very 
erect,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  her  quick  eyes  darting 
glances  on  all  sides  through  the  trees  of  the  park. 

"  Glad  to  come  back,  Pilly?  " 

Pilgrim  sighed.  "  I'm  glad,  and  yet  at  the  same  time 
I'm  sorry,  Miss  Pam,  which  takes  the  satisfaction  out  of 
things,  somehow.  I'd  much  rather  be  all  glad  or  all  sorry." 

"  Life  isn't  so  simple  as  that,"  returned  Pam  sagely ;  "  and 
for  my  part,  I  am  glad  it  isn't.  I  rather  enjoy  small  puzzle- 
ments, you  know." 

"  Them  as  'as  small  puzzlements  doesn't  always  escape 
big  ones,  Miss  Pam." 

"  Some  do.  I,  for  instance.  It  all  depends  on  whether 
one  really  knows  what  one  wants,  Pilly,  and  then  forging 
straight  ahead  toward  that  one  thing." 

The  girl  frowned  as  she  spoke,  the  frown  of  mental  intent- 
ness.  It  seemed  more  a  withdrawing  of  her  eyes  under  her 
brows  than  a  movement  of  the  brows  themselves. 

Pilgrim  shook  her  head.  Life  was  all  complications  and 
inner  conflict  to  her,  and  she  had  grown  much  older  in  the 
last  few  years. 

"  There  is  always  hobstacles,  Miss  Pam." 

Pam  gave  a  sudden  short  laugh  of  anticipatory  triumph. 

"  And  obstacles  are  made  to  be  jumped  over,  or  at  least 
climbed  over,  you  dear  old  croaker !  Sometimes  I  long  for 

127 


128  P  A  M 

great  obstacles  just  for  the  joy  of  surmounting  them.  Oh, 
here  we  are!  Dear  old  house.  And  there  is  good  old  Jud- 
son  at  the  door.  I  am  glad,  Pilkins,  aren't  you?  " 

Pilgrim  straightened  her  grim  bonnet  and  sighed.  As 
she  had  suffered  under  the  troubles  Pauline  had  never  even 
observed,  so  the  poor  soul  grieved  in  anticipation  of  Pam's 
future  ones. 

Lord  Yeoland  was  in  his  room,  the  butler  told  her,  so 
leaving  Pilly  in  the  hall  Pam  ran  upstairs. 

"  Grandfather,  may  I  come  in  ?  " 

The  old  man,  who  was  sitting  in  his  roll-chair  close  to 
a  bright  fire,  turned  delightedly  at  the  sound  of  her  vibrant 
young  voice,  and  as  she  kissed  him  and  chattered  on  he 
realised  how  desperately  bored  he  had  been  during  the  six 
years  since  she  had  gone. 

"  How's  your  mother?  " 

"  Very  well,  thank  you ;  she  sent  you  her  love." 

"H'ml    And— your  father?" 

"  Father  is  well,  too.  They  always  are,  you  know.  He's 
growing  a  little  bald:  it  is  such  a  joke!  " 

The  old  man,  who  looked  fresh  and  rosy  in  spite  of  his 
gout,  looked  at  her  slily. 

"And  we  have  grown  up!  Our  hair  is  braided  around 
our  head,  our  skirts  are  long,  and  we  have  a  figure!  To 
say  nothing  of  a  lover." 

Pam  started,  a  quick  blush  dying  her  face.  "  Oh — you 
mean  Ratty!  Can  you  imagine  any  one  being  so  idiotic?  " 

"  Also,  we  laugh  at  the  unfortunate  who  ventures  to 
love,  and  not  to  please  us.  My  dear,  you  are  definitely  and 
irrevocably  a  woman." 

She  laughed.  "  Yes,  I  am  nearly  seventeen,  an  aged 
female.  Do  you  think  me  improved  ?  I  mean  in  looks  ?  " 

Lord  Yeoland  studied  her  face  for  a  moment  with  much 
solemnity.  "  You  are  still  plain,"  he  said  at  last,  "  but  not 


P  A  M  129 

quite  so  plain  as  formerly.  And — I  am  very  glad  to  have 
you  back,  my  dear." 

"  I  am  glad,  too,  G.  F." 

And  indeed  the  young  girl  was  gladder  than  she  could 
quite  explain,  even  to  herself,  to  be  again  with  the  old  man, 
with  whom  she  felt  a  strong  sense  of  camaraderie.  He,  for 
his  part,  looked  back,  as  the  days  flew  past,  at  the  last  few 
years  with  a  sort  of  amused  admiration  for  his  own  im- 
patience in  enduring  their  dulness.  Rosamund  and  her 
children  as  mets  du  jour,  with  Dick  Maxse  and  an  occa- 
sional visit  as  an  entree — it  was  as  inexhilarating  to  look  back 
on  as  it  had  been  to  exist  through. 

And  Pam,  spicy  little  bonne  bouche,  he  had,  curiously 
enough,  asked  for  but  once.  Pauline's  reasons  for  preferring 
not  to  let  the  child  return  to  England,  on  that  one  occa- 
sion, had  seemed  to  him  too  good  to  be  protested  against, 
and  too  annoying  for  him  to  wish  a  repetition  of  their 
expression ! 

Dick  Maxse  had  given  him  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  by 
going  in  for  company-promoting,  and  one  or  two  of  his  per- 
formances in  that  line  had  enraged  the  old  man  as  no  one 
had  ever  seen  him  enraged.  During  a  period  of  eighteen 
months  the  culprit  had  been  forbidden  to  introduce  his  now 
reddening  nose  into  the  precincts  of  Monks' Yeoland,  and  dur- 
ing that  time  poor  Rosamund's  aspect  of  patient  woe  had 
nearly  driven  her  father  mad. 

On  the  whole,  as  he  now  enjoyed  Pam's  presence,  Lord 
Yeoland  wondered  how  the  deuce  he  had  been  able  to  exist 
so  long  without  it. 

"  The  fun,  however,"  the  wicked  old  man  thought,  with 
a  merry  rub  of  his  small  dry  hands,  "  the  real  fun  will  begin 
when  Ratty  comes  down ;  and  it  will  go  on  increasing,  unless 
I  am,  which  would  be  very  singular,  quite  out  of  my  reckon- 
ing, every  day  she  grows  older.  She  is  going  to  be  a  woman 


130  P  A  M 

with  whom  all  sorts  of  men  will  fall  in  loye.  And  I  shall 
marry  her  to  some  one  of  the  singing  brigade,  by  Jove !  " 

This  idea  gradually  took  possession  of  him,  as  was  perhaps 
not  unnatural. 

He  was  powerful  enough  socially  to  be  sure  that  many 
a  man  who  fell  under  the  charm  of  Pam's  rather  unusual 
personality  would  not  hesitate  to  marry  her,  as  his  grand- 
daughter. It  had  amused  him,  in  the  old  days  when  Pam 
had  been  at  Monks'  Yeoland  as  a  child,  to  present  her  as 
occasion  arose,  to  his  various  neighbours,  as  "  Pamela  Yeo- 
land, my  grand-daughter."  The  reception  of  this  bit  of 
information  had  varied  in  detail,  as  when  Lady  Oxton- 
Smythe  had  raised  her  painted  eye-brows,  or  when  a 
malicious  dowager  who  was  visiting  in  the  neighbourhood 
murmured  something  about  not  having  known  that  Lord 
Yeoland  had  a  son.  The  only  person  who  had  refused  to 
acknowledge  Pam  was  the  wife  of  the  old  man's  heir,  and 
Mrs.  Fred  Yeoland  was  unpopular  enough  to  make  her 
act  very  unfavourably  commented  on  by  every  one  who 
heard  of  it.  So,  on  the  whole,  Pam  had  been  accepted,  for 
her  grandfather  was  emphatically  the  greatest  man  of  his 
county,  bar  the  Marquis  of  Budcombe,  a  kindly  old  gentle- 
man who  collected  butterflies  and  beamed  like  the  sun  on 
righteous  and  unrighteous  alike,  for  the  excellent  reason  that 
he  was  too  deaf  to  be  able  to  hear  of  either  virtues  or  sins. 

And  now  she  had  returned,  and  Lord  Yeoland  amused 
himself  with  making  plans  for  that  future  to  which  she 
felt  so  strongly  her  own  exclusive  right. 

One  evening  in  November  Lord  Yeoland  and  Pam  sat 
in  the  library  listening  and  waiting  for  the  carriage  which 
had  gone  to  the  station  to  fetch  Mrs.  Maxse  and  Evelyn, 
who  had  been  visiting  in  London,  and  whom  Pam  had  not 
yet  seen. 

Pam  sat  on  the  club  fender,  in  this  case  a  comfortably 


P  A  M  131 

broad  and  low  one  covered  with  red  leather,  Caliban  in  her 
lap,  while  her  grandfather,  temporarily  pretty  well,  was  near 
her,  leaning  back  in  his  arm-chair. 

"  This  room,"  the  old  man  began,  after  a  long  pause,  dur- 
ing which  he  had  studied  her  thoughtful  face  quietly,  "  is  a 
very  good  background  for  you,  my  dear." 

"  Is  it,  grandfather?" 

"  Yes.  The  books  are  rather  gorgeous,  you  see,  and  the 
crimson  of  the  curtains  and  the  chairs  is  becoming  to  you. 
So  is  the  fire,  too." 

"  I  love  a  fire.  And  I  verily  believe  poor  old  Cally 
would  die  without  the  sight  of  the  flames.  He  lies  and 
thinks  how  he  wishes  he  could  roll  in  the  nice  hot  coals — • 
don't  you,  Cal  ?  " 

Caliban  turned  his  weird  little  face  to  her  and  told  her, 
as  plainly  as  possible,  not  to  be  absurd,  which  observation 
she  translated  to  that  outsider,  Lord  Yeoland. 

"  And  what  are  you  thinking  about  all  the  time,  my  dear? 
You  are  very  thoughtful  of  late." 

The  girl  looked  up  at  him.  "  You  noticed  ?  Well, 
grandfather,  I  suppose  I  might  as  well  tell  you.  It's  a 
man." 

"  A  man?  Already?"  Lord  Yeoland  sat  up  and  looked 
at  her  alertly.  "  Not  that  pink  and  yellow  curate,  I  hope?  " 

"  Mr.  Morecambe  ?  Oh,  no.  Some  one  you  never  heard 
of.  You  see,  it's  rather  queer.  He  used  to  be  awfully  in 
love  with  mother." 

"With  your  mother?  I  didn't  know  she  ever  knew  a 
man  before  Kennedy." 

"Lie  still,  Caliban,  and  stop  snoring!  Oh,  it  wasn't  that 
long  ago.  It  was  four  years  ago  at  Aix.  One  night  at  the 
opera  I  saw  him  staring  at  mother.  Pilly  and  I  were  in 
the  stalls,  and  she  and  father  were  in  a  loge,  and  he  saw  me 
watching:,  and  I  smiled  at  him." 


132  P  A  M 

"  That  was  kind  of  you,  my  dear." 

"  And  then  he  followed  me  out  into  the  garden  and  asked 
me  all  about  her." 

"  Good  heavens,  my  dear,  did  they  let  you  roam  about 
talking  to  strange  men  ?  Pauline  ought  to  know  better !  " 
commented  the  old  man  irascibly. 

"  Asked  all  about  her,"  went  on  the  girl,  without  noticing 
the  interruption.  "  I  told  him  who  she  was,  and  who  father 
was,  and  then  the  next  day  father  found  that  he  was  an  old 
friend ;  they  used  to  live  in  the  same  house  in  London,  years 
ago.  So,  of  course,  he — the  man,  I  mean — used  to  come  a 
lot  to  see  us.  He  was  very  much  in  love  with  mother." 

She  paused,  and  sat  thoughtfully  staring  at  the  carpet 
until  he  recalled  her  with  a  curt  "  Go  on !  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  Well,  he's  always  been  a  great  friend  of 
ours,  ever  since,  and  I  had  a  letter  from  him  yesterday." 

"  Still  in  love  with  your  mother?  " 

"  Oh,  no!  That's  just  it;  the  poor  thing  is  in  love  with 
me  now." 

"  Is  he,  indeed?     Has  he  told  you  so?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him,  a  sudden  laugh  flickering  on  her 
lips. 

"  No,  he  hasn't  told  me  in  so  many  words,  and  so  he 
thinks  I  don't  know.  It's  so  utterly  silly !  " 

"  You  may  be  mistaken,  my  dear." 

"  No,  I'm  not.  The  goose  told  me  that  he  had — palpi- 
tation of  the  heart,  one  day,  and  I  told  him  I  knew  why. 
Then  I  suppose  he  thought  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  startle 
me,  for  he  began  trying  to  be  friendly — and  turning  all  the 
colours  of  the  rainbow  every  time  I  looked  at  him !  And  he 
came  as  far  as  Paris  with  Pilly  and  me,  and  bought  me 
things  to  read  and  things  to  eat,  and  said  he  was  going  to 
write  to  me.  I  was  sorry  for  him.  Pilly  thought  he  had 
a  headache." 


P  A  M  133 

"  Well — and  now  he  writes  to  you." 

"  Yes.  I  didn't  mind,  you  know,  for  he  really  is  a  nice 
old  thing,  only  to-day — well,  G.  F.,  I  really  can't  help  it, 
and  I  don't  like  it  a  bit,  but  he's  taken  '  Birchmere,'  and 
is  coming  down  in  a  day  or  two  for  the  winter." 

She  rose  in  the  dramatic  moment  of  the  announcement, 
holding  the  rudely  awakened  Caliban  close  to  her  breast, 
regardless  of  his  feelings. 

1 '  Birchmere  ' !  Well,  upon  my  word !  What's  the 
man's  name,  my  dear  ?  I  hope  he  is  at  least  a  gentleman." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  is;  he's  queer — he  doesn't  seem  quite  civilised, 
somehow.  He's  a  little  like  a  stone-age  man,  but  he's  a 
gentleman.  He's  an  Australian,  and  his  name  is  Charnley 
Burke." 

"Burke?  I  never  heard  of  him.  Well,  are  you  going 
to  marry  him  ?  " 

As  he  spoke  the  sound  of  wheels  on  wet  gravel  turned 
the  current  of  their  thoughts.  "  Here  they  are!  No,  grand- 
father, I'm  not  going  to  marry  him,  but  I'm  afraid  he'll 
bother  me,  so  I  thought  I'd  tell  you." 

Mrs.  Maxse,  tired,  and  plainer  than  was  strictly  neces- 
sary under  a  green  veil,  entered  the  room  just  then,  followed 
by  a  tall  fair  girl  whom  Pam  knew  must  be  Evelyn. 

And  behind  them,  rather  mountainous,  though  anything 
but  craggy,  in  his  tight  grey  travelling  clothes,  Ratty  1 


CHAPTER  II 


**  NO,  Ratty,  neither  now,  nor  to-morrow,  nor  next  month, 
nor  next  year,  nor  next  century,  nor  next  eon  or  paean,  or 
whatever  it  is." 

"  But,  Pam — I  say,  you're  hard  on  a  fellow.  I  love 
you,  Pam !  " 

"  Ratty,  I'll  give  you  everything  I  own  on  earth  except 
Caliban,  if  you'll  stop  bothering  me." 

They  stood  at  the  top  of  the  tower  to  the  right  of  the 
ruin  of  the  monastery,  under  wind-swept,  leafless  boughs, 
and  a  dull  December  sky. 

"  Pam,  it  isn't  womanly  of  you  to  call  it  bothering." 

"  I  know;  but  I'm  not  womanly.  There  isn't  a  womanly 
hair  in  my  head.  I  am  a  cat,  Ratty;  I  am  cold  and  cruel 
and  hard  as — as  nails.  Oh!"  she  added,  breaking  into 
rueful  laughter  at  the  sight  of  his  fat  forlornity,  "  go  away, 
or  I'll  run  a  hat-pin  into  you!  " 

It  was  by  no  means  the  first  interview  of  the  kind  since 
the  Maxses  had  returned.  Ratty,  who  should  have  been 
at  Balliol,  had  developed  a  mysterious  ailment  which  he 
had  persuaded  the  doctor,  a  new  man  still  carefully  build- 
ing up  his  popularity,  to  declare  to  need  home  care,  and  Pam 
had  been  vexed  almost  to  tears  by  the  persistence  of  her 
unwieldy  suitor. 

On  that  particular  afternoon  she  had  escaped  under  the 
pretext  of  going  to  see  Cazalet,  but  Ratty  had  followed  her, 
and  in  her  despair  she  had  run  away  from  him,  feigning 
to  go  through  the  ruin  towards  the  walled  garden,  only  to 


P  A  M  135 

find,  on  arriving  at  the  top  of  the  tower,  that  he  was  toiling 
slowly  up  behind  her. 

Now  a  man  under  the  influence  of  the  tender  passion, 
while  he  may  be  either  abnormally  impervious  or  abnor- 
mally sensitive,  is  still,  under  either  category,  subject  to 
limitations. 

Ratty's  limitation  was  the  hint  of  a  hat-pin. 

"  Very  well,  Pam,"  he  said,  blowing  his  nose  with  dignity. 
"  I'll  go  away.  I'm  going  back  to  Oxford  in  a  few  days, 
and  until  I  do  go  I'll  not  bother  you,  as  you  call  it,  but  the 
time  may  come,  my  dear  girl,  when  you  will  realise  that 
the  offer  of  marriage  from  a — a  man  of  my  position  is  not  to 
be  scorned  by  a  girl — in  yours." 

Then  he  went,  leaving  her  to  pull  out  his  arrow  and  look 
at  it. 

"  Horrid  little  brute,"  she  exclaimed  aloud,  as  she  leaned 
over  the  parapet  and  watched  his  retreating  figure  through 
the  trees.  "  A  man  in  his  position,  indeed !  Thank  good- 
ness, he's  going  away.  And  what  a  fuss  they  all  do  make- 
about  marriage.  Even  dear  old  G.  F.  thinks  he's  going 
to  cook  up  a  nice  little  matrimonial  scheme  for  me.  If 
they  only  knew !  " 

She  leaned  against  the  rough  grey  stone  parapet,  over 
which  she  could  just  see,  a  slim  little  figure  in  a  red  jersey 
and  Tarn  looking  thoughtfully  down  into  the  wintry  leaves 
of  the  oak  in  the  Refectory,  her  head  making  a  pretty  enough 
picture  to  a  man  who  had  just  entered  the  ruin  and  stood 
looking  up  at  her. 

"Pam!" 

"Mr.  Burke!" 

Burke,  looking  bigger  than  ever  in  his  long  rough  great 
coat,  took  off  his  hat  and  stood  bareheaded  as  they  talked. 

"  Why  didn't  you  answer  my  letter?  " 

"  1  had  nothing  to  say  to  it." 


136  P  A  M 

"  I  told  you  I  was  coming." 

"  And  you  have  come.  How  do  you  like  Birchmere  ?  I 
hear  the  last  man  left  because  the  chimneys  all  smoked  so." 

"  Hang  the  chimneys.     Pam,  I'm  coming  up." 

"All  right,  only  go  slow:  the  stairs  are  old,  and  Ratty 
has  already  been  up  and  down  them  once." 

Burke,  as  he  emerged  on  the  platform,  answered  her 
observation  with  a  great  nervous  laugh,  adding,  "  You  are 
the  rudest  little  beggar !  " 

"  Yes,  am  I  not  ?     How  are  you  ?  " 

She  gave  him  her  hand  in  its  shabby  dogskin  glove  with 
careless  good  nature,  and  then  went  on  conversationally, 
"  Sorry  I  can't  offer  you  a  chair  and  some  tea." 

"  I  don't  want  tea.  But  are  you  going  to  stay  here 
long?" 

"I  don't  know.     Why  do  you  ask?" 

"  Because  if  you  are,  I  am  going  to  offer  you  a  seat." 

She  stared. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  know  what  I  mean,"  he  returned  with  an  air  of 
mystery,  and  an  effort  to  overcome  his  visible  nervousness. 

"  Then  suppose  you  tell  me,  my  good  man,  for  I  have 
even'  intention  of  staying  here  for — several  hours." 

"  You  have!     You  don't  find  it  rather  chilly?  " 

"  Balmy.  I  spend  all  my  evenings  here  for  preference." 
She  laughed,  enjoying  teasing  him,  as  she  spoke,  but  her 
laughter  ceased  suddenly  as,  without  a  word,  he  stooped, 
caught  her  up,  and  with  great  gentleness  set  her  down  on 
the  parapet  over  which  she  had  just  been  able  to  see  when 
standing. 

"  Oh!     How  strong  you  are!  " 

He  stood  with  his  arms  still  around  her,  his  face  close  to 
her  clasped  hands.  "  Yes,  I  am  strong.  How  do  you  like 
your  perch,  you  little  titmouse,  you?  " 


P  A  M  137 

"  I'm  not  a  titmouse,  you  old — mastodon !  You  needn't 
hold  me,  I'll  not  fall  off." 

He  did  not  move. 

"  What  if  I  should  hold  you  out  there,  over  the  edge,  and 
then  drop  you  ?  " 

"  If  you  did,  I  should  fall.  And  then  how  sorry  you'd 
be  when  you  heard  me  squashing  on  the  stones!  " 

He  started  back,  still  holding  her,  and  the  colour  left 
his  face.  "  You  little  ghoul !  Don't  say  such  things.  Tell 
me,  Pam,  are  you  glad  to  see  me?  " 

Pam  was  small,  but  she  had  never  in  her  life  realised 
that  she  was  so  until  this  great  rough  man  had  swung  her 
up  to  her  perch  there  on  the  tower  and  stood  before  her. 
Suddenly  she  said,  "  Take  me  down,  please." 

He  obeyed,  holding  her  for  a  moment  in  the  air,  and 
then  very  tenderly  setting  her  down  on  the  rough  stone 
platform. 

"  How  big  you  are !  "  she  said  slowly,  looking  up  at  him, 
"  and  how  little  I  am.  I  am  glad  I  am  little." 

"Why?"  he  asked  with  curiosity. 

"  Because,  some  day,  when  I  love  some  man,  I  want  him 
to  be  able  to  carry  me  as  you  did." 

Burke  drew  a  deep  breath  and  walked  abruptly  to  the 
other  side  of  the  platform.  He  knew  that  she  was  too 
young  to  be  made  love  to,  but  she  was  making  things 
hard  for  him. 

And  as  he  went,  she  remembered  what  she  had  herself 
forgotten  for  the  moment,  in  the  thought  that  had  come 
to  her  of  the  man  whose  existence  Madame  Ravaglia's 
words  had  made  her  aware,  the  man  she  was  some  day 
to  love. 

She  remembered  that  Burke  loved  her,  and  thought  that 
she  had  hurt  him.  It  was  an  episode  that  had  no  pre- 
cedent; she  enjoyed  hurting  the  obnoxious  Ratty,  but  she 


138  P  A  M 

liked  Burke,  and  as  yet  no  curiosity  had  come  to  her  about 
the  depth  and  exact  nature  of  his  feelings. 

"  Shall  we  go  in  and  get  some  tea?"  she  began  a  little 
uncertainly.  "  It  must  be  time." 

"  A  most  excellent  idea.  I  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  on  my 
way  to  call  on  your  grandfather.  I  have  something  for  him." 

"For  my  grandfather?    What,  I  wonder?" 

"  A  photograph  of  your  mother,"  he  returned  as  they 
went  down  the  winding  stair.  "  It  was  taken  just  before 
I  left  Paris,  and  she  sent  a  copy  to  him." 

"  Oh !  What  gown  did  she  have  on  ?  And  who  did  her 
hair?  I  do  hope  not  that  horrid  '  Charles.'  He  makes  all 
the  heads  on  earth  look  identically  alike !  " 

"  All  those  things  you'll  have  to  decide  for  yourself,  my 
dear  child.  It's  a  low  gown,  and  her  hair  looks  much  as 
usual,  that's  all  I  know." 

Lord  Yeoland,  whom  they  found  alone  in  the  library, 
was  very  gracious  to  Burke,  and  accepted  the  photograph 
with  great  pleasure. 

"  An  excellent  picture — remarkably  like  her.  She  has 
changed  very  little  since — since  I  saw  her,"  he  said  putting 
his  pince-nez  back  into  its  case.  "  What  are  you  looking 
for,  Pam?" 

Pam,  who  was  down  on  her  hands  and  knees  peering 
under  a  great  arm-chair  beyond  the  radius  of  the  lamplight, 
turned  her  face  over  her  shoulder.  "  I'm  looking  for  poor 
old  Cally,  grandfather.  You  swore  you'd  look  after  him 
— he's  so  homesick  to-day,  poor  dear.  I  suppose  it's  his 
birthday  or  some  other  anniversary." 

"  Meaning  that  the  little  brute  is  in  even  a  viler  temper 
than  usual.  Mr.  Burke,  you  probably  have  the  honour 
of  the  creature's  acquaintance,  and  will  understand  when 
I  tell  you  and  his  irate  mistress  that  after  he  had  twice 
tried  to  bite  me  I  had  to  send  him  up  to  Pilgrim." 


P  A  M 

Pam,  who  had  risen,  went  to  the  door  and  rang. 

"  You  must  have  got  on  his  nerves,  then,"  she  retorted 
rather  ungraciously,  "  for  he  almost  never  bites.  James, 
fetch  my  monkey,  will  you?" 

When  tea  and  the  banished  Caliban  had  appeared,  and 
Pam  had  dispensed  the  former  in  her  usual  somewhat  hap- 
hazard way,  she  sat  down  by  the  fire  and  listened  gravely 
while  her  grandfather  and  his  new  neighbour  made  con- 
versation. 

When  at  last  Burke  had  gone,  she  did  not  speak  until  the 
old  man  exclaimed  suddenly,  "  And  you  think  he  is  in  love 
with  you  ?  " 

"Yes.     Don't  you?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  saw  nothing  particularly  decisive,  I 
must  say." 

"  Oh,  he's  not  an  idiot,  you  know.  But  isn't  it  a  pity  he 
should  waste  his  time  on  me  ?  " 

"Why  must  it  necessarily  be  waste  of  time?  He  seems 
a  very  good  sort  of  man,  my  dear." 

Pam  nodded  absently.  "  Oh  yes,  only  he  isn't — I  mean, 
wouldn't  it  be  excellent,  grandfather,  if  he  should  fall  in 
love  with  Evy  ?  " 

"  Why  in  the  name  of  goodness  should  he  do  that?  " 

"  I  don't  say  that  he  should,  only  that  I  wish  he  would. 
She  is  really  grown  up,  you  know,  nearly  nineteen.  And  he 
is  frightfully  rich.  I  do  like  him  so  much." 

Lord  Yeoland  smiled.  "  Then  why  don't  you  consider 
him  yourself  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no!  I  can't  exactly  explain,"  she  returned,  rising 
and  taking  up  her  hat  and  jacket ;  "  but  he  isn't  the  man 
for  me  at  all." 

"  I  see.  It  may  be  a  little  awkward  then,  his  settling 
down  here." 

"  No.     I  was  afraid  of  that  too,  until  I  had  seen  him,  but 


140  P  AM 

now  I  know  better.  He  won't  bother  me  yet;  he's  waiting 
until  I'm  older."  . 

"By  Jove!  Now,  how  in  the  world  did  you  get  hold 
of  that  idea?  "  said  the  old  man,  highly  amused  and  de- 
lighted. 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I'm  sure  it's  right,  G.  F.,  dear." 


CHAPTER  III 


AND  she  was  right,  as  Lord  Yeoland,  from  his  vantage 
ground  of  neutral  observation,  soon  admitted  to  himself. 

Burke  was  not  a  particularly  clever  man,  but  he  had 
t  certain  strength  of  his  own,  and  he  was,  as  the  old 
onlooker  called  it,  a  stayer.  Once  over  his  first  nervous- 
ness, the  big  Australian  settled  down  into  a  calm  that  would 
have  disarmed  any  one  not  so  keen-sighted  as  the  two  Yeo- 
lands.  He  did  not  promenade  his  hopes  or  his  occasional 
woes  for  the  benefit  of  his  small  public,  nor  did  he  bore  the 
Monks'  Yeoland  household  by  over-frequent  visits.  There 
was  a  simple  dignity  about  his  whole  attitude  which  pleased 
Lord  Yeoland,  as  did  also  the  line  he  took  towards  the 
county. 

In  spite  of  his  great  size  Burke  rode  well,  and  all  that 
winter  he  followed  the  hounds  regularly.  Then,  for  he 
was  generous,  he  subscribed  largely  to  the  church  building 
fund,  and  did,  in  a  frank  though  unobtrusive  way,  a  great 
deal  of  good  to  the  poor  in  his  neighbourhood. 

"  A  very  nice  fellow,  Cunningham,  isn't  he?  "  Lord  Yeo- 
land once  remarked  to  the  Rector,  and  that  good  man  was 
all  enthusiasm. 

Cazalet,  on  the  other  hand,  did  not  take  to  the  new- 
comer, and  it  gave  his  employer  much  mild  pleasure  to 
confide  in  the  old  steward  his  hopes  that  Pam  might  one 
day  become  Mrs.  Burke. 

"  Indeed,  my  lord.  H'm!  "  Cazalet,  who  had  less  hair 
and  more  wrinkles  than  of  old,  but  whom  Pam  had  found 

141 


142  P  A  M 

otherwise  delightfully  unchanged „  rubbed  his  hand  across 
the  back  of  his  head,  a  trick  he  had  in  moments  of  slight 
embarrassment. 

"  Yes.  I  am  not  a  matchmaker,  as  you  know,  but — 
well,  Cazalet,  you  are  an  old  friend,  and  I  am  sure  your 
interest  in  Pamela  is  almost  as  great  as  my  own.  You 
discovered  her,  you  know !  " 

"  Yes,  my  lord.  I  am — h'm! — very  fond  of  Miss 
Pamela." 

"  But  I  understand  from  your  manner  that  you  do  not 
approve  of  this  Mr.  Burke  as  a  possible  husband  for  her? 
Mind  you,  it  is  all,  of  course,  merely  conjecture  on  my 
part." 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  approve  or  to  disapprove,  your 
lordship,  but — as  you  ask  me,  I  don't  mind  saying  that  I  do 
think  your  grand-daughter  might  look  higher." 

Lord  Yeoland  nodded,  suddenly  thoughtful.  "  No  doubt, 
no  doubt.  When  all  is  said  and  done,  we  of  course  know 
nothing  of  the  man,  except  that  he  seems  a  good  sort  of 
fellow,  and  is  generous  with  his  money." 

"  She  is  so  unlike  most  young  ladies,"  went  on  the 
steward  hesitatingly ;  "  she  seems  to  me  to  be  so  much 
more  original-minded.  I  don't  think  money  could  make  her 
happy." 

"  Neither  do  I,  Cazalet,  neither  do  I.  But — well,  I 
confess  it  has  looked  to  me  a  good  way  out  of  what,  after 
all,  is  bound  to  be  more  or  less  of  a  difficulty.  What  if  she 
should  fall  in  love  with  some  one  who — couldn't  marry 
her?  I  mean,  because  of  his  rank?" 

"  I  know.  But  she  certainly  doesn't  care  a  pin  for  this 
Mr.  Burke,  your  lordship." 

"  Right  again.    And  she  is  '  ower  young  to  marry,'  as  yet." 

The  steward  rose.  "  I  have  promised  to  be  at  Orchard 
Farm  at  noon,  my  lord,  h'm!  I  should  like  to  ask,  if  I 


P  A  M  143 

may,  whether  P — Miss  Pamela  has  ever  mentioned  to 
you  her  views  on — on  marriage  ?  " 

"  On  marriage?  No,  not  of  late.  She  once  told  me  years 
ago,  poor  little  thing "  He  broke  off  and  was  silent. 

"  If  I  might  make  a  suggestion,  my  lord,  it  might,  I 
think,  be  well  for  you  to — h'm! — ascertain  her  present 
opinion  on  the  subject.  I  fear,  indeed,  I  am  sure,  that  you 
will  find  it — unchanged." 

Lord  Yeoland  laughed.  He  anticipated  a  merry  half 
hour  with  Pam  on  that  great  question,  and  was  not  in  the 
least  disposed  to  take  her  views  seriously. 

"  No  use  in  talking  about  it,  grandfather,  is  there  ?  I 
am,  as  you  say,  too  young  really  to  have  any  views  at  all 
on  such  matters." 

"  But  you  happen,  at  the  same  time,  to  have  such  views ; 
and,  unless  I  am  very  much  mistaken,  you  fundamentally 
disapprove  of  marriage  as  an  institution  ?  " 

She  hesitated,  resting  both  hands  lightly  on  the  vase  she 
was  filling  with  flowers,  and  looking  at  him  with  thoughtful 
brows  across  the  shining  oak  table. 

"  As  an  institution  ?  That  sounds  rather  political,  and 
I  shy  at  politics,  G.  F.,  dear.  No,  I  don't  mean  anything 
about  institutions.  My  point  of  view  looks  towards  con- 
stitutions ;  and  as  you  insist  on  my  telling  you,  I  don't  mind 
stating  that  my  own  constitution  is  too  delicate  to  stand  such 
solid  diet  as  matrimony.  It  is  to  some  people,  and  I  am 
one  of  them,  as  indigestible  as  cold  plum  pudding." 

Encouraged  by  his  look  of  polite  interest  she  went  on 
slowly,  but  with  a  flash  of  delight  in  her  eyes:  "  I  may  even 
say,  that  to  my  ignorance  that  most  holy  state  seems  like 
a  plum  pudding.  On  the  day  when  it  is  served  up  hot,  burn- 
ing merrily  and  decked  with  holly,  it  seems  harmless 
enough,  and  even  to  be  recommended.  But  alas  the  next 
day! — you  yourself  will  admit  that  the  flame  and  the  heat 


144  P  AM 

are  gone,  and  only  the  soggy  indigestibility  remains.  That 
I  find  rather  a  knock-down  argument,"  she  added  with  a 
brilliant  smile;  "don't  you?" 

"  Excellent.    Most  florid  and  effective,  my  dear,  but — 
However,  as  we  agree,  you  are  rather  young  yet,  so  we 
will  wait  for  a  few  years  before  your  opinion  is  considered 
final.     Also,"  he  added  slily,  "  until  the  right  man  happens 

to  be  waiting  for  your  answer  to  his " 

'  Will  you,  won't  you,  will  you,  won't  you,  will  you 
join  the  dance?'"  she  quoted.  "Very  well,  let's  wait,  by 
all  means.  Only  don't  think  me  such  an  idiot  as  not  to 
want  Evy,  for  instance,  to  enter  into  those  sacred  bonds." 

"  Ah!     You  think  Evy  adapted  to  chains?  " 

Pan  laughed.  "  Imagine  the  joy  of  the  chains  on  sinking 
comfortably  for  life  on  her  nice  smooth  wrists ! " 

Lord  Yeoland  did  not  pursue  the  subject  any  further. 

One  morning  in  late  February,  while  the  ladies  of  the 
household  sat  grouped  about  one  of  those  splendid  fires 
which  are  the  Briton's  natural  defence  against  the  unkind- 
ness  of  his  native  climate,  Lord  Yeoland  came  suddenly 
into  the  room,  propelling  his  chair  with  a  grand  indifference 
to  furniture  that  bespoke  great  excitement.  "  The  Duchess 
is  coming,  Pam!  "  he  cried,  waving  a  scrap  of  orange  paper 
towards  her.  "  Bless  her  heart,  she's  actually  coming!  " 

Mrs.  Maxse  looked  up  in  mild  wonder.  "  Dear  me, 
father!  You  mean  Cousin  Eliza  Wight?  What  can  be 
bringing  her  down  here  now?" 

"  The  joys  of  my  society,  Rosamund ;  isn't  that 
enough  ?  " 

He  steered  himself  skilfully  into  the  nook  by  the  fire 
made  for  him  by  Evelyn,  and  read  the  telegram  aloud: 

"  '  If  convenient — Henrietta  I — to-day  Monday — Eliza 
Wight.'  Really  I  am  delighted." 

"  Eliza  Wight  appears  to  be  of  an  economical  turn  of 


F  A  M 

oiind,"  observed  Pam,  doing  something  very  insinuating 
to  the  fire  with  the  poker.  "  I  suppose  she  means  that  she 
will  stay  until  Monday?" 

"  Yes.  She  is  rather  economical — an  unfortunate  virtue 
in  an  otherwise  charmingly  faulty  nature.  Evy,  my  dear, 
just  go  and  tell  Mrs.  Bean,  will  you?  The  blue  room  for 
Eliza,  I  think,  eh,  Rosamund  ?  " 

Evelyn,  who  was  used  to  having  the  errands  fall  to  her 
share,  rose  obediently  and  left  the  room.  She  was  a 
tall,  rather  solidly  built  girl,  just  turned  eighteen,  with  a 
sweet,  somewhat  stupid  face,  and  beautiful  soft  hair  the 
colour  of  fresh  country  butter. 

"Who  is  Henrietta,  grandfather?"  Pam  asked,  turning 
her  back  to  the  fire  and  indulgently  scratching  Caliban's 
drowsy  head. 

"The  Lady  Henrietta  Shanklin,  my  dear;  her  daughter, 
my  god-daughter,  and  one  of  the  handsomest  women  in 
England,  which  is  saying  a  great  deal." 

"  Oh,  yes;   enough  for  any  one,  I  should  say." 

"H'm!" 

A  silence  fell  on  the  little  group,  as  each  member  of  it 
comfortably  pursued  his  or  her  own  thoughts. 

Rosamund  Maxse,  as  usual,  was  thinking  of  her  trouble- 
some husband,  of  whom  she  had  heard  nothing  for  nearly  a 
month.  He  was  supposed  to  be  on  the  Riviera  getting  rid 
of  a  cough  he  had  contracted  in  the  autumn,  but  she  was 
worried  about  him,  and  her  plain,  kindly  face  looked  worn 
and  anxious. 

Pam  was  thinking  about  Burke,  who  had  been  away  for 
a  month  on  the  Continent  and  in  London,  and  wishing  that 
he  would  come  back.  He  had  not  said  a  word  to  her  of 
his  love,  but  its  presence  lent  an  agreeable  excitement  to 
the  comfortable  dulness  of  her  life,  and  she  had  begun  to 
experience  an  uneasy  delight  in  tormenting  him.  It  would, 


146  P  A  M 

she  felt,  be  very  good,  that  drowsy  day,  to  have  some  one 
to  torment. 

And  Lord  Yeoland,  his  smooth-shaven  little  countenance 
full  of  the  pleasant  light  of  pleasant  thought,  was  as  silent 
as  either  of  the  two  women.  All  sorts  of  vague  possibilities 
began  to  form  themselves  in  his  mind,  in  connection  with 
the  Duchess's  visit.  Pam  had  long  since  become  the  very- 
centre  of  his  life;  with  every  hour  of  the  last  months  the 
two  had  grown  closer  to  each  other.  It  was  a  curious 
alliance;  there  were  no  demonstrations  on  either  side;  she 
had  not  kissed  him  since  the  day  of  her  arrival,  she  had 
never  once  stroked  his  hair  as  Evelyn  sometimes  did ;  they 
disagreed,  argued,  laughed  at  each  other.  But  they  were 
friends  with  a  friendship  which  had  nothing  to  do  with 
relationship  or  duty;  with  a  friendship  which  sprang  straight 
from  the  two  souls  in  some  ways  so  curiously  alike,  though 
the  one  was  so  old  and  the  other  so  young. 

And  gradually  in  Lord  Yeoland's  mind  the  thought  of 
the  girl's  future  grew  to  be  the  paramount  one.  He  had 
long  since  decided  to  leave  her  a  comfortable  fortune;  now 
he  began  to  chafe  at  the  social  limitations  that  confronted 
him  in  his  dreams  for  her.  But  for  that  little  ceremony 
which  had  not  taken  place  between  her  mother  and  her 
father  she  would  shortly  have  been  a  match  for  the  best 
in  the  land.  Now,  even  with  his  great  influence  to  back 
her,  she  would  have  to  put  up  with  something  less  than 
the  best.  Unless — and  his  old  head  reared  itself  at  the 
thought — one  of  the  best  should  so  love  her  that  he  should 
not  care  about  that  neglected  ceremony.  He  himself,  surely 
of  the  best,  would  not  have  hesitated  one  second,  and 
surely  there  must  still  be  men  of  the  same  metal!  He  had 
thought  so  long  on  the  subject  that  he  had  become  confused 
and  involved,  and  the  knowledge  that  the  Duchess  of  Wight 
was  coming  was  like  a  ray  of  light  in  a  black  night. 


P  A  M  14? 

Eliza,  if  she  could  be  induced  to  take  an  interest  in 
Parn,  would  be  the  most  convincing  sponsor  in  the  world 
for  the  girl.  Her  Grace,  who  in  spite  of  several  ancient 
peccadilloes,  had  somehow  managed  to  keep  well  on  the 
sunny  side  of  Royal  favour,  had  indeed  been  one  of  the  very 
hardest  on  Pauline,  and  once  he  knew  had,  on  meeting  the 
blissful  sinner  in  the  Vatican  Gallery,  given  her  the  most 
pronounced  snub  possible. 

"  And  she  had  the  face  to  pretend,"  her  Grace  had  told 
Lord  Yeoland,  "  not  to  see  me!  " 

"  Nonsense.  You  know  as  well  as  I  that  none  of  us  ever 
pretend." 

"  The  rest  of  you,  I  admit ;  it  is  the  one  good  quality 
of  your  race." 

"  It  isn't  a  virtue,  Eliza ;  it's  indolence,  or  indifference. 
Few  things  seem  to  us  worth  while  doing  at  all,  and  none 
worth  pretending." 

"  But  if  something  does  present  itself  to  you  in  the  light 
of  worth-whileness,"  retorted  the  old  woman,  grimly  humor- 
ous, "  nothing  on  this  side  the  grave  can  stop  you." 

She  herself  not  being  famed  for  possessing  the  most 
tractable  of  dispositions,  Lord  Yeoland,  sitting  now  by  the 
fire,  against  which  Pam's  regular  young  profile  stood  out 
in  strong  relief,  pondered  all  these  things.  The  great  lady 
who  might,  if  she  chose,  smooth  his  darling's  path  to  great- 
ness, might,  provided  the  two  strong  natures  clashed,  block 
that  same  way  with  the  greatest  ease.  The  essential  thing, 
therefore,  was  to  avoid  a  clash,  and  then  to  coax  into 
existence  a  mutual  liking  that  had  no  particular  reason  for 
being,  and  against  which  so  much  militated. 

As  he  was  in  his  way  a  wise  old  man,  he  decided  to  let 
matters  take  their  course. 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE  Duchess  of  Wight  and  the  Lady  Henrietta  Shanklin 
arrived  at  six  that  afternoon,  and  when  they  came  down- 
stairs found  their  host,  his  daughter,  and  Evelyn  sitting 
together  around  the  freshly  supplied  tea-table. 

Lord  Yeoland  had  often  chafed  under  the  conviction  tha» 
he  did  not  bore  his  daughter  and  his  elder  grand-daughter 
They  bored  him  so  inexpressibly  that  he  would  have  takeu 
a  wicked  satisfaction  in  the  knowledge  that  they  found  him 
as  irksome  as  he  found  them;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the/ 
both  enjoyed  his  society,  and  it  being  their  well-meant 
habit  to  tell  him  so,  he  chafed  helplessly.  So,  as  he  waited 
for  his  guests  to  repair  the  damages  of  their  journey,  time 
had  dragged,  and  when  the  Duchess  came  down  his  joy  had 
an  extra  keenness. 

"Well,  Oswald,  how  are  you?  It's  very  good  of  you 
to  let  us  blow  in  in  this  casual  way!  How  do  you  do, 
Rosamund;  ah,  Evelyn,  how  pretty  you  have  grown,  my 
dear." 

Her  Grace,  a  tall  old  woman  with  palpably  dyed  red  hair 
and  a  made-up  complexion,  sat  down  by  the  fire  and  held 
up  to  it  a  remarkably  small  foot  in  a  red  slipper. 

"  Warmer  here  than  in  Derbyshire ;  we've  been  freezing 
at  the  Danchesters'  this  past  week.  Cora  Danchester  pre- 
tends to  think  a  decently  warm  house  unhealthful,  so  we 
wore  fur  capes  to  dinner.  How's  your  gout  ?  " 

"  Infernal.  I'm  getting  an  old  man  now,"  returned  Lord 
Yeoland,  handing  her  the  muffins. 

148 


P  A  M  i*9 

"  You  are  seventy ;  I  am  sixty-four.  How  do  you  like 
my  hair?" 

"  Pretty  red,  isn't  it?  However,  I  like  it  better  than  the 
canary-colour  it  was  the  last  time  I  saw  you." 

"  Oh,  yes,  that  was  rather  bad.  Funny  of  us  all  to  dye 
our  hair,  isn't  it?  We  all  do,  however." 

Evelyn  listened  with  wonder  written  all  over  her  face,  a 
fact  which  neither  escaped  nor  restrained  the  Duchess,  who 
was  going  on  to  describe  the  wonders  worked  by  a  new 
American  dentist  in  Bryanston  Square,  in  the  artificial 
teeth  line,  when  the  door  opened  again  and  her  daughter 
came  in. 

Lady  Henrietta  was  one  of  those  few  dazzling  blonde 
English  beauties  who  take  the  colour  out  of  all  other 
women,  and  reduce  most  people,  on  first  sight,  to  rapturous 
silence. 

"  My  dear,"  her  host  exclaimed  with  the  enthusiasm  so 
charming  in  a  man  of  his  age,  "  you  are  lovelier  than  ever!  " 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  think  so,  Cousin  Oswald,"  she 
returned,  greeting  Mrs.  Maxse  and  Evelyn;  "you  are  cer- 
tainly a  good  judge." 

She  sat  down  and  drank  her  tea  with  slightly  bored 
composure  while  her  mother  gave  vent  to  a  little  burst  of 
woe  on  the  trials  of  being  the  parent  hen  of  such  a  brilliant 
duckling. 

"Heaven  knows  I  never  was  vain,  was  I,  Oswald?" 
her  Grace  said  plaintively ;  "  and  I  would  never  have  dreamed 
of  dyeing  my  hair  or  doing  messy  things  to  my  plain  old 
face.  Only  one  can't  go  about  looking  an  absolute  fright, 
can  one?  And  I,  in  my  natural  mouse  and  yellow  tints 
am,  beside  that  wretch,  ugly  enough  to  stop  a  motorcar.  My 
only  consolation  is  that,  when  she  does  fade,  it'll  all  go 
quickly,  for  her  features  are  not  much,  as  you  see  for 
yourself!" 


iso  P  A  M 

Evelyn's  horror  at  this  unmotherly  speech  was  almost 
too  much  for  her  grandfather,  who,  after  a  few  words  of 
sympathy,  changed  the  subject.  "  Who  else  was  at  Danches- 
ter?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  a  lot  of  bores  and  some  political  men.  Cora  is 
growing  very  keen  on  politics  as  her  precious  Billy  grows 
up!  Sir  John  Barry  was  there,  and  Lewisham." 

"  Nasty  little  Jew,  Lewisham — Levisohn." 

"  He  will  get  this  Bill  through,  just  the  same;  and  then 
there  was  the  new  man,  the  Member  for  Radbroke — 
Peele." 

Lord  Yeoland  straightened  up  suddenly.  "  The  fellow 
who  was  fined  after  that  speech  in  the  House?  Was  he, 
indeed?" 

"  He  was.     Wasn't  he,  Henny?  " 

"  Yes,  mamma."  Lady  Henrietta  set  down  her  cup  as 
she  answered.  "  He  is  coming  down  here,"  her  Grace 
went  on,  a  note  of  malicious  amusement  in  her  voice.  "  He 
is  here  this  minute  as  far  as  that  is  concerned — at  the 
Pockingtons'.  Came  down  in  the  train  with  us.  It  may 
interest  you  to  know,"  she  added,  with  something  nearly 
approaching  a  wink,  "  that  he  is  very  much  attracted 
by  me." 

Lady  Henrietta  rose  and  going  closer  to  the  fire  stood 
with  her  back  to  it,  fingering  a  fine  jewelled  chain  she 
wore  and  smiling  tranquilly.  "  Which  means,  Cousin  Os- 
wald, that  Mr.  Peele  is  a  friend  of  mine" 

"  You  may  be  congratulated  then,  my  dear,  for  I  gather 
that  he  is  a  very  clever  young  man.  I  always  read  his 
speeches." 

"Yes,  he  is  clever.  But  he  is  not  so  very  young;  he  is 
thirty-five." 

"When  is  his  birthday,  dear?"  asked  her  mother  sweetly. 

"  December  21,  mamma  darling,"  was  the  tranquil  reply,. 


P  A  M  isi 

and  then,  quite  naturally,  the  beauty  begged  Evelyn  to  go 
and  have  a  game  of  billiards  with  her.  A  few  moments 
later  Rosamund,  too,  left  the  room,  and  the  old  friends  were 
alone. 

"Quaint,  isn't  it?"  the  Duchess  began  promptly,  with 
a  sigh  of  relief. 

"What  is  quaint?" 

"  You  know.    I  wasn't  baiting  her  for  nothing,  was  I  ?  " 

"You  mean  that  Peele  and  she " 

"  I  mean  nothing  whatever  about  Peele.  I  don't  pretend 
to  understand  the  workings  of  his  mind,  but  I  know  my 
Henny!  She  is  in  love  with  the  man,  Oswald." 

Lord  Yeoland  rubbed  his  chin.  "  Dear  me,  is  she  in- 
deed? He's  not  a  person  she  could  possibly  marry,  is  he?  " 

"  There's  only  one  obstacle  so  far  as  I  can  see — he  may 
not  ask  her." 

"Good  heaven,  Eliza!" 

"  Exactly.  He's  no  more  in  love  with  her  than  he  is 
with  me.  On  the  other  hand,  she  would  be  very  useful  to 
him." 

"  But  who  is  he?  I  know,  of  course,  that  he  is  a  brilliant 
speaker,  and  that  they  say  he's  to  have  an  Under-Secretary- 
ship,  but " 

"  Oh,  he's  not  such  a  worm  socially  as  you  imagine,  my 
dear  friend!  As  to  that,  he  goes  everywhere.  Cora  Dan- 
chester  was  as  pleased  as  Punch  to  have  him,  and  he  is  going 
on  to  Levallion !  " 

"  I  see."  The  old  man  gazed  reflectively  into  the  fire. 
"And  she  likes  him!" 

"  Madly  in  love  with  him,  Oswald !  Between  you  and 
me,  she  has  been,  for  over  a  year.  She  met  him  on  the 
Umfreville's  yacht.  He,  however,  appears  to  have  seized 
the  idea  of  the  possibility  of  marrying  her  only  quite  lately, 
«Jueer,  isn't  it,  the  whole  thing?  " 


152  P  A  M 

"  I  shall  be  interested  in  seeing  the  man.  Where  is  he 
stopping,  did  you  say?" 

As  he  spoke  a  servant  brought  in  a  note.  "  For  Mrs. 
Maxse,  my  lord,  from  Wanby  Hall." 

"Oh,  Oswald,  read  it!  It's  to  ask  leave  to  bring  him 
to-night,"  cried  the  Duchess.  "  I  saw  Sir  Henry  at  the 
station,  and  he  said  he  was  dining  here." 

"  Take  it  to  Mrs.  Maxse,  James.  She  is  in  the  drawing- 
room,  I  believe.  Poor  Rosamund  will  be  in  despair,"  he 
added,  as  the  footman  left  the  room ;  "  she  bustled  about 
this  morning  to  get  a  couple  of  men  for  you  and  Henrietta, 
and  this  chap  upsets  the  table  again!  However,  one  of  the 
girls  can  come  down." 

"One  of  the  girls?" 

"  Yes,     Pauline's  daughter  is  living  with  me  now." 

The  Duchess's  face  hardened.  "  I  didn't  know  she  had 
a  daughter." 

"  Yes,  you  did ;  I  wrote  you  all  about  it  years  ago." 

"  Oh,  did  you?    Well,  I  had  forgotten." 

"  Don't  be  nasty  to  her,  Eliza." 

"  Of  course  I  shan't  be  nasty  to  her,  but  I  greatly  doubt 
the  wisdom  of  having  her  here." 

Lord  Yeoland  sighed.  "  My  dear  girl,  is  wisdom  to  be 
expected  from  me?  And  when  I  tell  you  that  I  love  her? 
That  she  is  the  one  thing  on  earth  that  amuses  me?  " 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,  Oswald,"  returned  the  old  woman 
obstinately,  "  but  I  cannot  forgive  Pauline." 

"  No  one  expects  that,  but  Pam  needs  no  forgiveness,  does 
she?  Mind  you,"  he  added,  "  I'm  not  asking  you  to  like 
her;  I  may  be  an  old  fool,  but  I  know  that  that  would 
be  demanding  too  much  of  any  woman  in  your  position. 
You  two  will  be  antagonistic  in  the  very  nature  of  things ;  I 
only  want  you  not  to  be  snifty  with  her." 

"Snifty!     A   charming   word!" 


P  A  M  isi 

"'  Well,  high-nosed,  if  you  prefer  it." 

Her  Grace  burst  out  laughing.  "  Very  well,  I'll  promise 
to  do  my  best,  which  is  as  much  as  any  woman  can  answer 
for!" 

When  he  was  alone,  Lord  Yeoland  grinned  to  himself. 

"  Rather  cunningly  managed,"  he  said  aloud. 

If  the  Duchess  should  take  a  liking  to  Pam  it  would 
not  only  be  the  child's  social  salvation,  but  a  particularly 
bitter  pill  to  Fred  Yeoland's  horrid  little  wife.  "  Good  old 
Eliz»l "  the  old  man  added  with  another  grin. 


CHAPTER  V 


A  FEW  minutes  later  Pam  came  bursting  into  her  grand- 
father's room,  wet  and  muddy,  but  glowing  with  excite- 
ment. 

"Grandfather,  is  it  true?     Is  Peele  really  dining  here?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear.     Is  the  news  too  much  for  you  ?  " 

"James  Peele!  Oh,  G.  F.,  if  I  can't  see  him  I  shall 
simply  die !  " 

The  old  man  laughed.  "  Allow  me  then  to  save  your 
life  by  suggesting  that  you  come  down  after  dinner ! " 

"After   dinner!     I    want " 

Lord  Yeoland  looked  up  sharply  towards  the  door.  "  Who 
is  it?  Who  is  there?"  he  called;  "do  come  in  and  stop 
fiddling  with  the  knob!" 

It  was  Mrs.  Maxse,  her  face  wearing  the  look  of  one  in 
great  affliction.  "  Oh,  father!  "  she  began  at  once,  twisting 
her  hands  together  nervously,  "where  am  I  to  get  another 
woman?  Sir  Henry  might  have  known  his  extra  man 
would  upset  us!  " 

The  old  man  rubbed  his  ear  thoughtfully.  "  I  don't 
much  mind  having  a  man  on  the  other  side  of  me,"  he 
answered ;  "  it's  a  small  dinner — only  I  won't  have  any  one 
who  is  deaf,  and  I  won't  have  Cunningham." 

"  Dear  papa,  you  know  we  can't  do  that !  Oh,  it  is  sc 
awkward." 

"  Well — oh,  yes,  of  course,  as  I  told  Eliza,  one  of  the 
girls  can  come  down !  " 

"I'll  come,  grandfather!"  Pam  had  risen  and  stood 

154 


P  A  M  155 

looking  up  with  gleaming  eyes.  "I'm  seventeen — plenty 
old  enough,  and  you  know  how  I  want  to  see  him! " 

"  Good !     Then,  Rosamund,  that's  settled !  " 

Mrs.  Maxse  flushed.  "  You  know  you  said  that  other 
time  when  Evelyn  came  down  that  you  wouldn't  have  either 
of  the  girls  until  they  were  older." 

"  That  was  because  Evy  sat  like  an  image  and  bored 
poor  Garstang  to  death.  And  then  Mrs.  Bentley-Cooke 
was  there,"  he  added,  with  the  tribute  of  a  chuckle  to  the 
memory  of  one  of  that  lively  lady's  little  stories.  "  Pam 
will  talk,  won't  you,  Pam  ?  " 

"  I  do  think  it  ought  to  be  Evy,"  persisted  his  daughter 
with  gentle  obstinacy. 

Pam  turned,  her  eyes  very  monkey-like  and  full  of  the 
wisdom  of  the  ages,  to  her  aunt.  "  Grandfather  wants 
me,  Aunt  Rosamund !  " 

"  Very  well,  papa,  as  long  as  you  really  do  want  her." 

The  old  man  nodded. 

"  Cut  along,  my  dear,  and  make  yourself  lovely.  Yes, 
Rosamund,  I  do  in  this  particular  instance  prefer  to  have 
Pam.  Thanks;  now  I  must  go  and  dress.  Jenkins  is 
waiting  for  me." 

Pam  flew  to  her  room  and  was  soon  deep  in  the  mysteries 
of  choice  between  a  pale  blue  crepe  frock  that  had  lost 
a  little  of  its  freshness  but  was  of  Parisian  make,  and  a 
white  silk,  new,  but  obviously  made  in  the  country. 

No  one  was  ever  more  surprised  than  she  when,  just  as 
she  had  wisely  decided  in  favour  of  the  blue  crepe,  Evelyn 
came  in  and  declared  that  she  wished  to  go  to  the  dinner 
instead  of  her  cousin. 

If  the  proverbial  worm  had  not  only  turned,  but  risen 
on  its  tail-tip  and  proceeded  to  strike  at  her  with  venomous 
fury,  Pam  could  not  have  been  more  taken  aback. 

"  But  you  know  you  hated  that  one  dinner  when  Aunt 


156  P  AM 

Rosamund  was  ill,"  she  returned,  dropping  the  scissors  with 
which  she  was  at  work  on  her  blue  corsage. 

"  I  know  I  did.  But  I  like  this  one,  and  I'm  going 
down." 

"What  will  grandfather  say?" 

This  was  a  subterfuge,  for  Pam  had  not  the  slightest 
intention  of  giving  way. 

But  Evelyn  stood  her  ground  stolidly.  "  Grandfather 
won't  care;  he  only  wanted  you  rather  than  me  because 
you  wanted  to  come." 

"Well?     I  rftf/want  to!" 

"  But  if  you  let  me  come  instead,  he  won't  care.  Pam, 
you  don't  mind  ?  " 

Pam  clashed  the  scissors  mockingly.  "  But  I  do.  Now 
don't  bother  me,  my  child;  my  great  mind  is  sternly  bent 
on  how  to  make  a  high-necked  frock  into  a  low  one,  in  half 
an  hour's  time." 

"  But — oh,  Pam,  please  let  me !  You  don't  know  how 
I  want  to  come.  I'll  do  anything  on  earth  for  you,  if  you 
will.  It  is  a  very  serious  matter  with  me,  and  it  is  only 
curiosity  on  your  part." 

Pam  rose  suddenly  and  came  close  to  her,  looking  in  her 
white  underwaist  and  short  red  silk  petticoat  very  child- 
ish, but  at  the  same  time  strangely  distinct  as  an  individ- 
uality. 

"  Evelyn  Maxse,"  she  said  sternly,  "  it's  a  man !  " 

Evelyn  blushed  with  helpless  embarrassment. 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  Oh,  Pam!  how  can  you  think  such  things?  " 

"  How  can  you  do  such  things?" 

"  But  I  haven't  done  one  thing,  Pam.  Really  and  truly 
I  haven't." 

"  Then  what  has  he  done  ?  " 

Evelyn  broke  down  and  wept  on  her  judge's  still  thin 


P  A  M  is? 

young  shoulder.  "  He  has  done  nothing ;  he  doesn't  even 
know.  And  I  do  so  want  to  see  him !  "  she  sobbed. 

"  Well,  tell  me  who  it  is  and  I'll  see  what  I  can  do," 
urged  Pam  with  calm  confidence. 

"  It's  Mr.  Morecambe." 

At  first  Pam  could  not  believe  her  ears,  and  then,  with 
a  sudden  laugh  that  affection  for  her  cousin  rendered  silent, 
she  patted  that  weeping  maiden  gently  on  her  back  and  bade 
her  wipe  her  eyes. 

"  Dearly  Beloved ! '  So  it's  him — he,  I  mean.  And  do 
you  adore  him  ?  " 

"  I  don't  adore  him,  but — I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  him 
'  Dearly  Beloved,'  Pam." 

"  Don't  be  crusty;  you  named  him  yourself,  and  you 
know  he  does  say  it  a  hundred  times  in  every  sermon. 
Well,  you  may  go  to  dinner,  so  stop  howling;  let  me  look 
at  your  nose." 

"  Oh,  Pam,  I  may  go?     And  you  don't  mind?  " 

Pam  gave  a  grim  smile.  "  Not  a  bit ;  far  be  it  from  me 
to  interfere  with  Love's  young  dream.  What  are  you  going 
to  wear?  " 

The  grateful  Evelyn  departed  to  make  herself  beautiful 
for  the  delectation  of  her  soul's  Lord,  and  Pam  sat  down 
and  reviewed  the  situation.  Of  course  she  had  had  no  pos- 
sible alternative.  Evelyn's  claim  obliterated  her  own,  but 
at  the  same  time  she  did  not  mean  to  miss  all  the  fun. 

A  few  minutes  later,  after  a  talk  with  Pilgrim,  she  left 
her  room  with  a  smile  of  triumph,  and  went  to  see  that 
Evelyn  was  not  ruining  herself  by  an  ill-judged  necklace 
or  the  wrong  kind  of  flowers. 

The  only  thing  for  which  she  had  particularly  cared,  in 
connection  with  the  dinner,  was  the  opportunity  of  seeing 
James  Peele.  All  the  autumn  and  winter  she  had  read  of 
the  man  and  his  doings,  and  there  was  something  in  his 


158  P  A  M 

speeches,  even  on  dry  political  subjects,  picturesque  enough 
to  touch  her  imagination. 

A  picture  of  him,  cut  from  some  paper,  and  showing  him 
in  the  act  of  speaking  in  public,  the  forefinger  of  his  right 
hand  lightly  laid  on  the  palm  of  his  left  in  a  way  evidently 
characteristic,  was  pinned  over  her  dressing-table,  and  as  she 
sat  pondering  she  raised  her  eyes  to  it. 

"  To  think  that  you  should  be  dining  here,"  she  exclaimed 
aloud,  "  and  I  not  see  you !  " 

The  story  of  his  outburst  of  speech  in  the  House,  in 
which,  in  a  towering  indignation,  he  had  so  bluntly  arraigned 
a  certain  great  political  light  that  the  papers  had  been  full 
of  the  scene  and  his  purse  shortly  the  lighter  by  several 
thousand  pounds — the  fine  he  declared  himself  glad  to  pay 
for  the  pleasure  of  having  spoken  his  mind — this  and  other 
things  about  the  man  came  back  into  the  young  worshipper's 
mind. 

Suddenly  she  sprang  up  and  rang  for  Pilgrim. 

"  Pilly,  take  this  and  cut  a  big  square  out  of  the  top, 
will  you?"  she  cried,  as  the  faithful  martyr  entered,  and 
throwing  the  blue  corsage  at  her.  "  I've  got  to  go  down 
after  dinner,  or  I'll  burst,  and  I  wish  a  low  gown." 

"  But,  Miss  Pam,  what  will  'is  lordship  say?  " 

"  Oh,  bother — I  mean,  never  mind  that.  Get  to  work, 
there's  a  dear,  and  I'll  go  and  borrow  a  pair  of  long  gloves 
from  Evelyn." 

The  dinner  went  off  rather  better  than  most  small 
dinners  in  the  country,  for  most  of  these  necessary  evils  are 
not  leavened  by  the  presence  of  a  duchess,  a  beauty,  and 
a  much  talked  of  y<-.  ig  politician,  and  its  end  was  not  so 
rapturously  welcomed  as  usual. 

The  men  had  no  sooner  rejoined  the  longing  women  (and 
the  women  do  long  for  the  men,  even  if  the  men  be  an 
unserried  rank  of  hop3less  bores,  after  dinner!)  than  Lord 


P  A  M  159 

Yeoland  asked  Lady  Henrietta  to  play,  and  she  took  her 
place  at  the  piano.  She  was  splendid  that  night  in  a  close- 
fitting,  glittering  black  gown,  her  only  jewel  a  big  diamond 
on  her  right  hand.  And  she  played  wonderfully  well  for  a 
woman  who  was  not  a  musician. 

Pam,  coming  through  the  outer  room,  paused  and  swept 
a  comprehensive  glance  across  the  group  of  presumably 
listening  men  and  women. 

Her  grandfather  stood  by  the  fire  near  the  Duchess, 
whose  rather  shabby  velvet  gown  was  ablaze  with  jewels; 
opposite  them  the  Rector  smiled  amiably  into  space,  while 
the  waves  of  sound  passed  over  his  head  without  touching 
him.  Miss  Veronica  Marsh,  who  really  loved  music  and 
could  not  play  a  note,  listened  with  grieved  surprise  to  the 
meaningless  gush  of  uninterrupted  melody. 

Pam  saw  them  all.  She  also  could  see  the  back  of  Sir 
Henry's  head.  Coming  a  step  further  she  stopped  suddenly. 
The  man  in  the  corner,  standing  with  folded  arms,  his  head 
sunk  on  his  chest,  was  James  Peele;  she  knew  him  at  once. 
And  for  several  minutes  she  studied  him,  the  lithe  lines  of 
his  long  figure,  the  breadth  of  shoulder,  the  slimness  of  his 
well-shod  feet,  the  close-cropped  dark  head.  It  was  as  if 
he  had  put  himself  just  there,  with  nothing  between  him 
and  her,  that  she  might  inspect  him. 

And  then,  as  the  music  ceased,  he  looked  up  and  she 
saw  his  face;  the  thin,  keen  face  with  the  deep-set  grey 
eyes,  the  big  bony  nose  and  the  close-lipped,  rather  large 
mouth.  Not  a  brilliant  face;  rather  a  thoughtful  one, 
above  all  a  hard  one,  in  the  sense  of  determination. 

Pam  did  not  know  why  her  breath  caught  in  her  throat 
as  she  started  forward,  but  it  was  that  unconsciously  she 
recognised,  in  its  perfected  prime,  the  first  will  she  had  ever 
met  that  was  stronger  than  her  own  childish  one  could  ever 
become. 


160  F  A  M 

Her  welcome  by  her  amused  grandfather  was  warm,  and 
when  he  introduced  her  to  the  Duchess  that  great  lady, 
who  was  growing  sleepy,  was  glad  of  something  to  study. 

"  So  you  are  Lord  Yeoland's  famous  Pam  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Yes,  I  am  Pam.     Am  I  famous?" 

"  Very.     Why  were  you  not  at  dinner?  " 

"  There  was  no  room.     Oh,  I  wonder  where  Evelyn  is?  " 

The  Duchess  laughed.  "  She  went  to  look  at  the  orchids 
—or  the  moon,  with  the  blonde  curate." 

Pam's  eyes  danced,  but  she  answered  gravely,  "There  is 
no  moon." 

Somehow  the  Duchess  felt  herself  full  of  the  milk  of 
human  kindness,  and  she  saw  the  injustice  of  blaming  Pam 
for  that  without  which  she  could  not  have  been  there,  with 
her  charming  dark  eyes  full  of  mischief,  to  amuse  a  sleepy 
old  woman. 

"  My  dear,  when  you  are  older,"  her  Grace  answered, 
touching  the  child's  hand  lightly,  "  you  will  know  that 
there  are  circumstances  on  which  a  full  moon  always  shines." 

And  Pam  nodded,  quivering  with  sympathetic  under- 
standing. 

"  They  will  be,  I  think,  engaged  within  a  week,"  con- 
tinued the  Duchess.  "  How  old  is  she  ?  " 

"  Eighteen.     Fearfully  young,  don't  you  think?" 

Her  Grace  laughed.  "  Young/  How  old  are  you,  may 
I  ask?" 

"  I  meant  young  to  be  engaged.     I  am  only  seventeen." 

She  had  said  nothing  worth  saying,  but  somehow  she 
had  won  the  old  woman's  liking,  as  Lord  Yeoland  saw  with 
much  satisfaction. 

A  few  minutes  later  Sir  Henry  Pockington  asked  her  to 
show  him  the  orchids,  and  they  went  into  the  sweet  warmth 
»f  the  great  conservatory.  On  the  way  they  passed  close 
to  Peele,  who  was  now  talking  to  Lady  Henrietta,  and  who 


P  A  M  lei 

at  their  approach  looked  up  without  ceasing  to  speak.  It 
thus  happened  that  Pam,  whose  ears  were  almost  uncannily 
sharp  where  she  was  interested,  first  met  Peele's  eyes  to  the 
sound  of  his  quiet  voice  saying  deliberately,  "  Love  to  me 
can  never  be  more  than  that." 

Without  the  slightest  change  of  expression  he  watched 
the  girl's  face  until  she  had  passed,  and  her  eyes  were  as 
dogged  as  his. 

"  Did  you  hear  him?  "  she  asked  Sir  Henry. 

"No.     Who?     Peele?" 

"  Yes." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"  He  was  making  love  rather  loud,  that's  all,*'  returned 
the  girl  drily. 


CHAPTER  VI 


IT  was  curious  that  the  next  time  Pam  saw  Peele  it  was 
in  a  position  in  which  not  one  woman  in  a  million  ever  sees 
a  man — that  of  asking  another  woman  to  marry  him. 

Two  or  three  days  after  the  dinner  the  young  girl  came 
home  through  the  dusk,  watching  the  glories  of  a  really 
beautiful  late  winter  sunset.  The  sky,  as  she  cast  a  last 
glance  at  it  on  the  outskirts  of  the  park  before  plunging 
into  the  obscurity  of  an  evergreen  plantation,  on  her  way 
to  the  house,  was  a  blaze  of  gold  and  purple  clouds;  and  on 
coming  again  into  the  open  as  she  approached  the  monastery 
ruins  it  occurred  to  her  that  from  the  top  of  the  tower 
she  would  have  a  very  good  view  of  the  western  sky  before 
going  into  the  house. 

Turning  to  the  right  she  entered  the  Refectory  and  ran 
quickly  up  the  old  stairs,  whose  inequalities  she  knew  now 
by  heart,  the  place  being  a  great  favourite  of  hers,  and  came 
out  on  to  the  platform.  A  cutting  had  been  made  through 
the  trees  to  the  west  of  the  house,  for  the  sake  of  a  wild 
bit  of  upland  view,  and  the  opening,  framed  in  by  bare 
beeches  and  scant-leaved  oaks,  was  a  splendour  of  light 
streaked  with  bright  colour. 

"  Like  those  little  Turners  to  the  left  of  the  door  in  the 
National  Gallery,"  the  girl  murmured  to  herself,  climbing 
to  the  parapet  by  the  help  of  a  block  of  wood  she  had  once 
brought  up  for  the  purpose,  and  sitting  down. 

She  had  been  there  only  a  few  minutes  when  she  heard 

162 


P  A  M  163 

voices  to  her  left,  down  below,  and  turning,  saw  Lady 
Henrietta  wrapped  in  glossy  dark  furs,  entering  the  Refec- 
tory with  a  man  whom  she  at  once  knew,  in  spite  of  the 
disguising  properties  of  a  rough  greatcoat  and  a  bowler, 
to  be  Peele. 

The  beautiful  woman  carried  her  muff  to  her  cheek 
as  if  in  some  confusion,  and  for  a  moment  they  were 
silent.  Then  the  man  went  on  in  a  curiously  low,  measured 
voice. 

"  So  you  see,  Lady  Henrietta,  my  ambition  is  practically 
boundless." 

"  I  see.     And — I  believe  in  you,  Mr.  Peele." 

Pam,  whose  early  indifference  to  the  heinousness  of  listen- 
ing to  conversations  not  intended  for  her  ears  had  given  way 
under  instruction  to  the  usual  conventional  dislike  of  so 
doing,  drew  back  cautiously  with  the  intention  of  descend- 
ing from  her  precarious  perch;  but  the  light  block  of  wood, 
wet  with  recent  rain,  slipped  from  under  her  searching  foot, 
and  bounced  out  of  reach.  So,  as  she  could  not  get  down 
without  a  considerable  jump,  and  being  afraid  of  risking  it 
with  damp  boots  on  the  wet  stones,  she  sat  still. 

The  two  people  below  had  strolled  across  the  great  hall 
and  stood  under  the  big  oak.  Peele,  who  was  facing  the 
unseen  spectator,  took  off  his  hat  and  looked  round  with 
a  slight  frown  on  his  white  brow. 

"I  am  glad  that  you  do  believe  in  me;  I  wonder  how 
far  that  belief  would  go." 

His  delicate  face,  with  the  great  strength  that  was  so 
unlike  the  animal  and  vital  strength  of  Burke's,  interested 
Pam  keenly.  The  power  of  restraint  that  was  in  it  she 
saw  and  appreciated,  and  as  she  watched  suddenly  the  idea 
came  to  her  that  that  famous  burst  of  anger  in  the  House 
had  not  taken  him,  as  every  one  had  supposed,  by  storm. 
"  He  let  himself  go,"  she  said  to  herself,  with  a  thrill  at 


164  P  AM 

feeling  herself  clever  enough  to  guess  such  a  secret.  "  He 
did  it  on  purpose." 

Lady  Henrietta  was  looking  away,  and  Pam  had  not 
heard  her  reply  to  his  question,  but  he  was  speaking  again. 

"  May  I  put  it  to  a  test  ?  "  he  asked  quietly,  his  deep-set 
eyes  fixed  on  his  companion's  face. 

"  Yes." 

Something  in  the  breathlessness  of  her  answer  made  the 
listener's  heart  give  a  great  throb,  as  it  had  long  ago  in  the 
presence  of  Charnley  Burke 's  passion  for  her  mother. 

Quite  forgetful  of  the  exposure  of  her  posit-on  and  that 
she  had  no  right  to  hear,  Pam  leaned  over  listening  with 
all  her  ears. 

"  Henrietta,  will  you  marry  me?  " 

She  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  he  went  on  rapidly  but 
not  hurriedly:  "  Of  course,  many  people  would  think  me 
very  audacious  to  ask  you,  but  I  am  an  audacious  man,  and 
I  want  you.  You  know  everything  there  is  to  know  about 
me — that  my  father  was  merely  a  poor  country  gentleman, 
whereas  yours  was  the  Duke  of  Wight;  that  I  am  poor 
myself,  whereas  you  are  rich.  Will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

Pam  had  listened  to  all  this  with  no  conscious  qualms 
at  all,  but  when  Lady  Henrietta  raised  her  proud  head  from 
her  muff  and  looked  up  at  him  without  a  word,  the  young 
girl  suddenly  shut  her  eyes  so  tight  that  they  hurt,  and 
stuffed  the  tips  of  her  dogskin  fingers  into  her  ears. 

She  had  no  right  to  see  and  hear  that. 

"  That's  like  mother  and  father,"  she  thought,  in  an  agony 
of  sympathy.  "  She  really  does!  " 

After  a  moment  that  seemed  an  eternity,  she  opened  her 
eyes,  and  when  she  could  see  beheld  Peele  raising  his  head 
from  his  fiancee's.  He  had  kissed  her,  but  she  looked,  Pam 
thought,  as  though  she  had  been  in  heaven. 

Peele's  subsequent  remarks  were  uninteresting,  and 


P  A  M  165 

began  to  cast  about  in  her  mind  as  to  how  she  should 
manage  to  get  away,  provided  Lady  Henrietta  continued 
to  stand  there  with  her  hand  on  his  arm  indefinitely. 

It  was,  however,  the  fiancee  herself  who  solved  the 
question. 

"  Let  me  go  on  ahead,  please,"  she  said  rather  tremu- 
lously. "  Mamma  will  tease  me — come  in  about  half  an 
hour." 

"  Very  well.  Good-bye  until  then."  He  kissed  her 
gently,  and  she  went  out. 

Pam,  waiting  for  him  to  take  himself  off,  likewise  forgot 
that,  there  now  being  nothing  to  keep  his  eyes  busy  below, 
they  might  turn  towards  her,  but  so  it  happened.  After 
standing  perfectly  still  for  a  few  minutes,  a  slight  frown  on 
his  immobile  face,  he  suddenly  looked  up. 

"Hello!" 

"  Hello !  "  answered  the  girl  faintly. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?  " 

"Sitting  down.  Did  you  think  I  was  flying?"  She 
laughed  as  she  answered. 

"  I  saw  you  the  other  evening  at  Lord  Yeoland's,"  he 
went  on,  still  frowning. 

"  You  did.     I  am  Pam  Yeoland— Pamela." 

"And  how  long,  may  I  ask,  have  you  been  perched  up 
there?" 

"About  half  an  hour." 

His  frown  deepened,  which  somehow  had  the  effect  of 
putting  her  at  her  ease. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  I  can't  get  down.  Perhaps  you  wouldn't 
mind  helping  me?  "  she  went  on. 

"  Not  at  all,  how  can  I  get  up?  " 

"  The  stairs  are  there  to  your  left." 

A  few  seconds  later  he  stood  beside  her.  "  How  did  you 
get  up?" 


166  PAM 

"  By  the  block  over  there ;  when  I  tried  to  get  down,  when 
you  came,  it  squeezed  from  under  my  foot,  and — and  there 
I  was!" 

"  I  see." 

He  looked  sternly  at  her,  and  she  could  see  the  firm  lines 
about  his  mouth  and  eyes,  and  distinguish  more  clearly  than 
ever  the  strength  of  his  mouth  and  chin.  Evidently  he 
regarded  her  as  a  naughty  child,  who  had  been  eaves- 
dropping. 

And,  indeed,  in  her  red  jersey  and  Tarn,  she  looked  like 
a  child. 

"  When  we  came,"  he  went  on  at  length  in  a  cold  voice, 
"why  didn't  you  call  to  us?" 

"  I  had  nothing  to  say  to  you." 

"  Has  no  one  ever  taught  you  that "  And  then  he  re- 
membered that,  however  childish  she  might  look,  she 
had  certainly  had  on  a  low  gown  the  other  evening,  and 
therefore  must  have  some  claims  to  being  treated  as  a  grown 
person. 

Pam  looked  at  him.  "  I  did  shut  my  eyes  when — when 
you  kissed  her,"  she  said  slowly,  "  and  I  stuffed  up  my  ears, 
too." 

The  frown  that  seemed  to  do  duty  as  a  signal  of  both 
embarrassment  and  thoughtfulness,  as  well  as  for  the  emo- 
tions frowns  ordinarily  bespeak,  darkened  again.  "  How- 
old  are  you?  "  he  asked. 

"  I'm  seventeen." 

"  Well,  I'll  help  you  down  now,  Miss  Yeoland." 

He  put  the  block  under  her  feet,  and  steadied  it  while 
she  descended.  Then  he  said,  taking  off  his  hat,  "  Good 
afternoon." 

"You've  no  right  to  be  so— so  disgusting  to  me!  You 
might  have  known  some  one  would  hear  you!  And  I  didti'r 
want  to!  I  was  here  first,  too." 


P  A  M  167 

"  That  is  true.     You  might  have  warned  me." 

"  Oh,  yes,  sneezed,  I  suppose !  I  tell  you  I  tried  to  get 
down.  And,  anyhow,  it  didn't  seem  to  matter,"  she  added, 
relapsing  into  sudden  thoughtfulness. 

"  Didn't  seem  to  matter?     What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  mean — you'll  glare  at  me  if  I  tell  you." 

"  No,  I  won't.     Go  on." 

"  Well,  it  all  seemed  pretty  matter  of  fact  at  first." 

Peele  gave  a  short  laugh,  the  first  she  had  ever  heard 
from  him. 

"  Matter  of  fact !  You  seem  to  have  had  a  wide  experi- 
ence in  such  matters." 

His  laughter  cost  him  his  position,  for  it  put  her  at  her 
ease,  and  she  went  on  gaily  as  to  heart,  though  solemn  of 
face: 

"  Not  very  wide,  but  still  a  little.  And  I  must  say,  you 
are  a  better  hand  at  a  speech  or  a  parliamentary  row  than 
you  are  at  a  proposal." 

James  Peele  was  used  to  a  good  deal  of  deference,  and 
this  remark  from  a  slip  of  a  girl  who  had  every  reason  to  be 
thoroughly  ashamed  of  herself  surprised  him  intensely. 

"  What  do  you  know  about  speeches  and  parliamentary 
rows?"  he  retorted,  looking  at  her  with  a  new  interest  in 
his  cold  eyes. 

"  I  read  them  all  to  my  G.  F. — my  grandfather,  you 
know.  And  that's  why  I  came  down  the  other  night, 
because  I  did  so  want  to  see  you." 

"  I  am  flattered." 

"  You  needn't  be ;  I  am  as  curious  as  a  magpie.  Well, 
as  I  was  saying,  we  loved  your  speeches!  " 

"  And  you  didn't  care  for My  dear  child,  you  had  no 

business  to  be  there  at  all,  but  some  day  you  may  see  for 
yourself  that  a  man  is  always  at  a  great  disadvantage  on 
these  occasions."  After  a  pause  he  added,  with  a  half  smile, 


168  P  AM 

"  It  is  lucky  that  Lady  Henrietta  is  not  so  hard  to  please  as 
you." 

Pam  tore  off  her  right  glove  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"  It  iV  nice  of  you  not  to  give  me  a  wigging,"  she  cried 
impulsively,  "  and  I  am  sorry,  though  I  really  couldn't 
help  it." 

He  took  her  hand  and  looked  seriously  at  her  as  she 
spoke.  "All  right.  What  were  you  going  to  say?"  For 
she  had  begun  to  speak  and  then  relapsed  into  silence. 

"  Nothing." 

"  You  were." 

"  Well,  I've  changed  my  mind." 

"  Come  tell  me,  there's  a  nice  child.  It  was  about  me,  I 
know." 

"  I  won't  tell  you ;  please  don't  bother." 

"You  won't?  I  am  as  obstinate  as  you!  You  mean 
that  you  won't  tell  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Tell  me.  I  really  wish  to  know,"  he  urged  with  amused 
curiosity.  But  she  shook  her  head. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  tell;  now,  at  least;  some  day  I  may." 

"  Very  well.  Only,  we'll  probably  never  meet  again,  in 
which  case " 

Pam  put  on  her  glove.  "  Let's  go,  it's  late,  and,"  she 
turned  as  she  started  down  the  chilly  stairway,  "  we  shall 
surely  meet  again." 

She  was  most  monkey-like  at  that  moment,  and  something 
in  her  voice  startled  him. 

"  I  hope  so,  I  am  sure,  but  how  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Because  I  know.  We  shan't  like  each  other  particu- 
larly, for  we  are  both  too  obstinate,  but  we  shall  see  a  good 
deal  of  each  other.  I  am  a  boojum,  and  I  know!  " 

Peele  laughed,  and  as  they  separated,  she  going  on  to 
the  house,  he  turning  to  the  left  for  a  turn  under  the  trees, 


P  A  M  169 

he  looked  after  the  slim  little  figure,  speeding  through  the 
dusk,  with  another  laugh  of  amusement.  Then  his  thoughts 
returned  to  his  own  affairs. 

Two  days  later  the  Duchess  and  her  daughter,  with  Peele 
in  their  train,  left  Monks'  Yeoland. 


CHAPTER  VII 


LORD  YEOLAND  was  not  a  proud  man  as  proud  men 
go,  and  he  was  certainly  no  stickler  for  title.  He  had,  how- 
ever, certain  standards  which  he  had  inherited  ready-made 
from  his  father,  and  up  to  one  of  these  the  Reverend  Cecil 
Morecambe  did  not  come,  so  that  when  that  gentle  cleric 
asked  Richard  Maxse  for  his  daughter's  hand,  a  month 
later,  and  Dick,  who  had  just  returned  very  seedy  and  quite 
penniless  from  his  mysterious  travels  on  the  Continent,  saun- 
tered into  his  father-in-law's  sanctum  for  advice,  the  old 
man's  language  was,  Maxse  afterwards  told  his  wife,  any- 
thing but  academic. 

"  I've  nothing  against  the  parson,  you  see,"  the  light- 
hearted  father  went  on  to  his  weeping  daughter,  "  but  we 
are  all  in  the  hands  of  the  Lord,  so  to  say,  and  his  lordship 
does  not  appreciate  your  suitor." 

Poor  Rosamund  wept  at  her  father,  Evelyn  stopped  eat- 
ing in  public,  and  even  Pam  tried  to  influence  her  friend  and 
ancestor  in  vain. 

"  No,"  shouted  the  old  man,  tormented  out  of  his  usual 
good  humour,  "  I  won't  have  it,  and  that  is  enough  said.  I 
suppose  I  need  not  give  my  reasons  to  you,  Pamela?  " 

"  Oh,  if  you're  going  to  call  me  Pamela!  However, 
before  I  am  thrown  downstairs,  let  me  ask  whether  it  has 
occurred  to  you  that  if  (and  he  doesn't}  Mr.  Maxse  doesn't 
object  to  Mr.  Morecambe,  you  have  no  right  to?  " 

It  was  thoroughly  characteristic  of  the  relations  of  the 
two  speakers  that  as  the  one  finished  her  question  the  other 

•70 


P  A  M  171 

suddenly  burst  into  a  delighted  laugh.  "  You  little  wretch ! 
How  dare  you?  I  have  no  right  to  object  to  that  pink- 
haired  curate  as  an  addition  to  my  household?  Be  off,  or 
I  will  '  kick  you  downstairs ' ! "  And  Pam  rushed  away  to 
tell  the  despondent  Evy  that  she  had  at  least  broken  the  back 
of  her  grandfather's  evil  temper. 

"  I  made  him  laugh,  and  that  is  a  lot  gained,"  she  asserted 
with  a  confidence  by  no  means  shared  by  her  tearful  cousin. 

"  He'll  never  consent,  never  in  this  world." 

"Rubbish!  Besides,  what  if  he  doesn't?  You're  not 
his  daughter.  I'd  go  out  some  fine  morning  and  be  quietly 
married  and  then  come  in  and  tell  him.  It  would  be  fun 
to  watch  his  face,"  she  added  reflectively. 

"  That's  all  very  well,  Pam,  but  you  don't  know  wrhat 
it  is  to  have  grown  up  under  his  thumb.  And  he  always 
frightened  me  out  of  my  wits." 

"Rot!"  Pam's  vivid  little  face  glowed  with  vicarious 
courage  and  romance.  "  Either  you  love  Cecil  enough  not 
to  mind  a  little  raging  on  grandfather's  part,  or  grand- 
father's cowed  you  so  that  you  are  afraid  to  love !  "  Evelyn 
wept. 

After  a  moment  her  cousin  observed  with  some  scorn: 
"  Well,  you'll  have  to  do  one  thing  or  the  other ;  if  you 
are  going  to  obey  G.  F.,  for  Heaven's  sake  blow  your  nose 
and  obey  him  cheerfully.  And  if  you're  going  to  marry 
Cecil  Morecambe — marry  him!  In  the  meantime  I'm  going 
for  a  walk,  and  if  there  are  any  messages  you'd  like  me  to 
give  him,  I'll  go  over  to  the  rectory  and  look  him  up." 

"Oh,  Pam ! "  Evelyn  rose  and  wiped  her  eyes.  "If 
you  aren't  afraid,  and  really  don't  mind " 

"  I'm  not,  and  I  don't  mind ;  only  hurry,  for  it's  going 
to  pour." 

"  Then — tell  him  that  I  am  dreadfully  unhappy,  and  have 
cried  my  eyes  out." 


172  P  A  M 

"  Indeed,  I  won't  tell  him  anything  so  idiotic.  Don't 
you  want  to  see  him  ?  " 

"See  him?     How  could  I?" 

"  By  looking  at  him,"  answered  Pam  impatiently.  "  Oh, 
if  it  was  me,  I'd  show  you!  You  have  no  more  pluck  than 
a  white  mouse;  I'm  ashamed  of  you!  " 

It  was  a  curious  scene;  the  big  strongly  built  Evelyn 
reduced  by  her  inherent  weakness  of  will  to  a  soft  mass  of 
blue  serge  huddled  in  a  chair;  opposite  her,  small,  slight, 
a  child  still  in  many  ways,  Pam,  with  the  lust  of  battle 
in  her  dark  eyes,  conscious  strength  maturing  her  little 
face. 

"You  can't  keep  the  man  hanging  on,  you  know;  it 
would  be  loathsome  of  you;  you've  either  got  to  accept  him 
and  face  grandfather  (or  else  have  the  courage  to  turn  tail 
and  flee  with  Cecil!),  or  tell  him  definitely  that  he  isn't 
worth  the  row,  and  let  him  go  away  somewhere.  Decide, 
and  I'll  tell  him  what  he  is  to  prepare  for." 

But  Evelyn,  unable  to  make  up  her  mind,  took  refuge  in 
her  damp  handkerchief,  and  Pam  rushed  downstairs  in  a 
rage  of  impatience. 

An  hour  later  she  rushed  into  the  rectory  and  asked  for 
Mr.  Cunningham. 

"  Mr.  Cunningham  is  not  at  'ome,  miss,"  the  maid  told 
her. 

"  H'ml     Is  Mr.  Morecambe  in?" 

Mary  believed  that  he  was;  would  Miss  Yeoland  step 
into  the  drawing-room. 

Pam  stepped  in,  and  to  pass  the  time  walked  up  and  down 
from  window  to  window,  her  hands  elapsed  behind  her  as 
was  her  habit  still. 

Morecambe  came  in,  pinker  and  yellower  than  ever,  it 
struck  the  self-appointed  ambassador. 

"  I  have  a  lot  of  things  to  tell  you,"  she  began  abruptly, 


P  A  M  173 

"  and  as  Mrs.  Cunningham  might  interrupt,  suppose  we 
take  a  walk." 

The  Reverend  Cecil,  who  was  very  young  and  so  mud 
like  Evelyn  in  character  as  well  as  in  colouring  that  a  wiser 
woman  than  Pam  would  have  hesitated  before  helping  him 
towards  the  winning  of  the  object  of  his  affections,  obediently 
fetched  his  very  correct  clerical  head-covering,  and  the  two 
went  forth  into  the  windy,  cloudy,  afternoon. 

Pam  told  her  story  briefly,  without  glossing  or  blaming 
the  conduct  of  any  one  concerned  in  it. 

"  So  you  see,"  she  finished,  "  you'll  have  to  persuade  her 
to  marry  you,  or  else  you'll  have  to  clear  out." 

"  I  don't  see  how  /  can  persuade  her,"  was  the  rather 
forlorn  answer,  as  if  he  were  the  last  person  on  earth  who 
might  reasonably  be  supposed  to  have  any  influence  over 
Evelyn,  "  if  Lord  Yeoland  refuses  his  consent." 

"  She  isn't  my  grandfather's  child,  is  she?  " 

«  No,  but " 

Pam  stood  still,  holding  her  face  toward  the  wind  as  if 
in  need  of  refreshment. 

"  Very  well,  I  shall  tell  her,  then,  that  you  give  her  up 
and  bow  sweetly  to  my  grandfather,  who  really  hasn't  the 
slightest  right  to  dictate  to  either  of  you." 

Poor  Morecambe  frowned  with  distress.  "  Oh,  no,  Pam, 
not  that!  I'll  never  give  her  up,  but '' 

"  But  you  won't  fight  for  her.  Oh,  la,  la — this  is  awful !  " 
The  last  phrase  she  added  under  her  breath.  "  It's  like  try- 
ing to  build  a  fortress  out  of  balls  of  dough,"  she  said  a  few 
minutes  later,  "  and  I'm  going  to  stop  trying.  Good-bye." 

Even  the  curate  objected  to  being  called  a  ball  of  dough, 
and  intimated  as  much. 

Pam  laughed.  "  Well,  I  beg  your  pardon,  only  it  does 
sicken  me  to  see  you  both  so  helpless.  If  it  was  me,  I'd 
make  grandfather  give  way,  or  I'd  run  away  with  you." 


174  P  A  M 

"  You  forget  my  cloth." 

"  No,  I  don't,  not  a  bit.  Love  is  a  funny  thing,"  she 
burst  out  suddenly,  with  a  childishness  that  brought  back 
to  the  rather  humiliated  young  man  the  realisation  of  his 
seven  or  eight  years  of  seniority. 

"Why?"  he  asked,  with  a  slightly  superior  smile. 

"  Because  it  is  so  absolutely  unreasonable." 

This  was  less  childlike,  but  he  answered  promptly,  "  My 
dear  child,  pardon  my  suggesting  that  you  as  yet  cannot 
possibly  know  anything  about  it." 

She  turned,  her  lips  steady,  but  with  something  in  her  eyes 
that  made  him  uneasy.  "  Possibly  not ;  and  yet — I  have 
lived  with  it,  have  seen  it  every  day  of  my  life  (except  when 

I'm  here),  and "  She  broke  off,  for  she  could  not  well 

tell  this  proper  youth  about  Charnley  Burke  and  his  love  for 
her  mother  and  for  herself. 

It  was  characteristic  of  her  that  she  never  considered  poor 
Ratty's  passion  for  an  instant.  She  herself  was  not  yet  ripe, 
she  knew,  but  she  resented  any  one's  suggesting  that  she  did 
not  know  much  more  about  love  than  most  of  the  people  who 
considered  themselves  to  have  felt  it.  Maxse's  careless  atti- 
tude of  good-natured  tolerance  towards  his  wife;  her  piteous 
subjection  to  him,  and  the  nervously  irritable  juxtaposition 
of  opinions  existing  between  the  Rector  and  Mrs.  Cunning- 
ham, had  not  shaken  her  feeling  that  the  love  of  her  father 
and  mother  was  the  only  real  love  she  knew. 

Morecambe  was  embarrassed  by  her  allusion,  and  after  a 
confused  and  lengthy  message,  the  component  parts  of  which 
were,  as  Pam  immediately  pointed  out,  quite  irreconcilable 
with  each  other,  he  escaped,  and  she  went  on  alone. 

"They  will  dawdle  and  edge  until  all  the  beauty  (if 
there  is  any)  is  gone  out  of  it,  and  then  grandfather  will 
give  way,  and  they  will  marry  and  just  jog  along.  Ugh !  " 

Disappointed  and  cast  down,  she  returned  home.     It  had 


P  A  M  175 

begun  to  rain,  and  the  wind  blew  cheerlessly.  Suddenly 
she  thought  of  her  father  and  mother. 

They  were  in  Rome.  They  were  fond  of  her,  she  knew, 
but  she  also  knew  that  she  was  in  no  way  necessary  to 
them,  and  she  realised  that  they  were  probably  enjoying 
their  idle  tete-a-tete  existence  as  much  as  if  she  had  never 
been  born.  She  was  not  at  all  bitter  in  her  appreciation 
of  this  fact;  long  ago  she  had  outgrown  her  childish  idea 
of  being  missed  by  her  mother,  and  it  seemed  to  her,  if  not 
quite  natural,  yet  eminently  fair  that  she  should  be  unneces- 
sary to  her  parents. 

Each  human  life,  she  thought,  had  a  rJght  to  perfect 
independence  of  feeling.  Parents  necessarily  provided  for 
the  material  welfare  of  their  children,  and  as  naturally  loved 
them.  But  as  the  child  was  an  individual,  entitled  to  its 
own  life,  so  was  the  parent.  It  seemed  to  her,  and  she  had 
reflected  much  on  the  subject,  that  the  most  important  thing 
in  the  world  is  the  love  of  the  one  man  for  the  one  woman, 
and  that  nothing,  not  even  the  little  lives  resulting  from  that 
love,  should  be  allowed  to  interfere.  It  is  the  woman's 
right,  she  told  herself,  to  love  the  one  man  best;  and  some 
day  the  child's  turn  will  come  if  she  finds  her  one  man. 

Evelyn's  limp  refusal  to  stand  up  for  her  man  and  the 
man's  diplomatic  hedging  had  irritated  Pam  to  an  unusual 
degree,  so  that  she  was  wound  up,  so  to  say,  to  the  exposition 
in  her  own  person  of  the  great  truth  that  liberty  is  the  high- 
est good  in  the  world. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


ON  going  in,  she  found  two  letters  for  herself,  lying  on 
the  hall  table. 

Pulling  off  her  wet  gloves,  she  sat  down  on  the  table  and 
opened  the  first.  It  was  from  the  Duchess. 

"  MY  DEAR  CHILD:  I  find  that  I  shall  have  to  go  over  to 
Ireland  for  Christmas,  to  look  after  some  tiresome  business 
and  to  see  my  daughter,  Lady  Maria  O'Reilly,  who  is  not 
well.  It  will  be  rather  dull,  but  then  life  at  Monks' 
Yeoland  is  no  gayer,  and  if  you  will  go  with  me  I  shall  be 
glad  and  grateful.  Henrietta  is  to  stay  at  Danchester; 
she  has,  frankly,  no  great  liking  for  Ireland,  but  then  she 
has  no  sense  of  humour  and  you  have,  so  I  think  you  may, 
on  the  whole,  rather  enjoy  it.  Tell  your  grandfather,  to 
whom  I  am  also  writing,  that  I  will  take  good  care  of  you, 
and  meet  me  in  town  on  the  tenth. 

"  Affectionately  yours, 

"  ELIZA  WIGHT." 

Pam's  legs  stopped  swinging  as  she  read.  She  liked  the 
Duchess,  and  she  would  go. 

Then  she  opened  the  other  letter.     This  was  written  on 
cheap,  glossy  paper  in  a  neat,  careful  hand,  and  began: 
"  My  Dear  Miss  Yeoland." 

She  did  not  know  the  writing  and  the  stamp  was  English. 
As  she  read,  the  girl's  face  flushed  and  then  paled.  The 

tft 


P  A  M  17? 

letter  was  not  long,  and  she  read  it  through  twice.  Then, 
as  she  was  about  to  jump  down  from  the  table,  a  door 
opened,  and  Lord  Yeoland  appeared  in  his  self-propelling 
wheel-chair,  his  legs  covered  with  a  rug. 

"  Well,  Pam,"  he  called  cheerily,  for  he  had  just  had  an 
interview  with  Evelyn,  "  what  are  you  doing  perched  on  the 
table  like  a  monkey  on  a  bough?  " 

"  I  have  been  reading  my  letters,  grandfather." 

"Ah!  So  you  know.  I  am  sorry,  my  dear,  I  hoped  to 
have  the  pleasure  of  telling  you.  Well,  isn't  it  delightful? 
Sir  John  O'Reilly  has  one  of  the  best  houses  in  Ireland — it 
will  be  the  making  of  you.  I  knew  Eliza  would  like  you," 
he  added  affectionately. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  the  Duchess,"  returned  Pam  absently ; 
"  she  is  a  dear." 

"  What  are  you  hesitating  about  ?  Clothes  ?  That  is 
already  settled.  Your  aunt  will  take  you  to  town  to-morrow 
and  get  you  a  suitable  outfit.  Let  me  see — this  is  the 
third?" 

"  The  fourth.     Grandfather,  read  this,  please." 

He  had  wheeled  his  chair  close  to  the  table,  so  without 
gytting  down  from  her  seat  she  handed  him  her  second  letter. 

"Who's  it  from?  Dear  me,  why — what  the  devil  has 
she  to  say  to  you  ?  " 

"  Read  it  through." 

"  I  can't  read  it,  my  dear ;  I  haven't  my  glasses." 

Handing  it  back  to  her  he  listened  with  an  amused  frown 
as  she  read  the  letter  aloud: 

"  MY  DEAR  Miss  YEOLAND — Alone  and  sick  unto  death, 
there  is  no  one  to  whom  I  can  address  myself  but  you.  I 
have  no  relations,  and  my  faithful  servant  is  dead.  You 
know,  I  make  sure,  that  your  father  has  a  living  wife,  for 
I  have  heard  that  neither  of  them  try  to  conceal  it.  I  am 


178  P  A  M 

that  wife.  I  am  Susan  Kennedy,  that  your  father  married 
twenty-four  years  ago  last  August,  in  St.  John's  Church  in 
Basingbrook,  Wilts. 

"  I  am  not  asking  you  for  money,  for  I  have  plenty  of 
that,  but  I  am  old  and  sad  and  paralysed  in  my  left  side,  and 
I  want  some  one  to  talk  to,  and  I  am  not  ashamed  to  own 
it,  some  one  to  tell  me  about  George.  His  real  baptised 
name  is  George,  as  I  daresay  you  know.  Will  you  come  and 
see  me?  I  know  that  your  grandfather  has  adopted  you, 
but  you  will  get  no  hurt  by  coming  to  me,  for  I  have  al- 
ways been  quiet  and  a  lady,  and  the  Rector  calls  on  me 
regularly. 

"  Surely  it  will  not  hurt  you,  whose  very  existence 
wrongs  me,  to  come  and  tell  me  the  things  I  want  to  know." 

Then  followed  a  careful  direction  how  to  find  the  remote 
village  in  Derbyshire,  even  the  hours  of  the  necessary  trains 
being  given,  and  the  writer  was  Pam's  sincerely,  Susan 
Kennedy. 

Lord  Yeoland  paused  a  moment  before  he  spoke,  on  the 
cessation  of  Pam's  voice.     Then  he  said,  "  It  is  very  pathetic, 
my  dear." 
'"  Yes,  grandfather." 

"  I  was  always  extremely  sorry  for  the  good  lady,"  he 
went  on,  with  a  little  smile.  "  She  was  very  badly  treated, 
and  for  no  fault  of  her  own.  It  was  foolish  of  her  to  write 
to  you,  but  the  poor  thing  knew  no  better.  You  had  better 
write  her  a  kind  letter,  my  dear,  and  you  might  send  her — 
h'm! — some  fruit  and  books  from  town." 

Pam  had  got  down  from  the  table  and  folded  her  let- 
ter. Then  she  picked  up  her  gloves  and  stood  pulling  the 
wet  leather  into  shape.  When  the  old  man  finished,  she 
looked  up. 

*'  I  am  going,  grandfather." 


•YOU  KNOW  THE  RESULTS  OF  DIS- 
OBEYING THAT  COMMAND'  " 


P  A  M 

"Going?    Where?"  he  asked,  bewildered. 

"  To — to — Torpington." 

"  Torpington?  " 

"  To  see — my  father's  wife." 

If  it  had  been  Rosamund  or  Evelyn  who  spoke,  Lord 
Yeoland  would  have  uttered  a  short  oath. 

But  it  was  Pam,  so  he  only  looked  at  her  in  silence,  and 
then  said  quietly,  "  No,  you  are  not  going,  Pam." 

"  Yes.     You  see,  I  must." 
You  are  going  to  Ireland  with  the  Duchess." 

"  No.  I  shall  write  to  the  Duchess  that  I  cannot;  she 
will  understand." 

Lord  Yeoland  drew  a  deep  breath.  "  I  think  that  you 
will  not  deliberately  disobey  me,  and  I  forbid  you  to  go  to— 
to  see  that  woman." 

She  leaned  over  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Grandfather,"  she  said  slowly,  "  please  don't  forbid 
me." 

He  knew  what  she  meant,  but  could  not  admit  it. 

"  I  do  forbid  it." 

"  Then  I  must  disobey  you." 

"  Then — you  must  leave  my  house." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  Oh,  how  could  you! "  Her 
pain  was  so  sincere  that  his  old  heart  contracted. 

"  Listen,  my  dear.  I  am  very  fond  of  you,  as  you  know, 
or  I  would  not,  for  the  sake  of  my  own  dignity,  argue  with 
a  child  like  you.  However,  here  are  my  reasons  for  for- 
bidding you  to  follow  this  kind,  though  foolish  instinct. 
You  are  old  enough  to  know  that  your  mother,  in  going 
off  with  your  father,  committed  an  act  bound  to  have  far- 
reaching  consequences." 

'  The  sins  of  the   fathers  ' — and  mothers — particularly 
the  mothers,"  she  returned  soberly. 

"  Yes.     She  has  made  herself  an  outlaw  for  life.     Beside 


iso  P  A  M 

that,  which  does  not  trouble  her  apparently,  her  outlawry 
rests  on  you  as  well." 

"On  me?" 

"  Yes.  To  a  certain  extent.  You  are  not,  in  the  world's 
powerful  eyes,  on  the  same  sound  basis  that  Evelyn  is,  for 
example." 

"  I  know;  because  I  am  illegitimate."  Her  white  young 
face,  grave  with  her  great  decision,  did  not  change  as  she 
spoke.  "  I  know;  poor  Pilly  minds,  but  I  don't." 

"As  yet  you  have  not  come  in  contact  with  the  world. 
Now  that  you  are  growing  up  it  troubles  me.  I  wish  you 
to  be  happy;  I  wish  your  brain  to  become  what  it  is  capable 
of;  I  wish,  and  I  have  tried,  to  exempt  you  from  the  almost 
inevitable  consequences  of  your  mother's  act." 

"  Dear  grandfather,  I  am  very  happy." 

"  The  Duchess,  because  she  is  of  higher  rank,  and  because 
she  is  a  woman,  is  much  more  powerful  than  I,  and  her 
taking  you  up  can  mean — anything  for  you.  Her  letter  to 
me  about  you  has  made  me  happier  than  I  have  been  for 
years.  And  if  you  refuse  to  go  with  her  to  Ireland,  if  you 
let  slip  this  chance,  you  will  have  lost — more  than  you  can 
yet  realise,  for  she  will  not  come  forward  again." 

Pam  was  silent,  her  hands  thrust  into  the  pockets  of  hei 
jacket. 

"  Pam,  write  a  kind  letter  to  that  poor  woman,  and  tell 
her  that  you  cannot  go  to  her;  the  Duchess  would  never 
speak  to  you  again  if  you  did,  and  she  would  be  right;  it 
is  not  fitting  that  you  should  come  into  contact  with 

The  girl  cut  him  short  peremptorily.  "  I  am  sorry, 
grandfather,  but  I  must  go.  And  that  is  all  rub — I  mean, 
you  are  mistaken  about  it  being  fitting.  She  is  all  right; 
/  am  the — the  queer  person  socially.  I  mean,  she  may  be 
not  a  lady,  but  she  is  proper,  and  father  and  mother  and  I 
are  the  improper  ones." 


P  A  M  i8i 

He  turned  his  chair  with  an  impatient  movement.  "  I 
have  condescended  to  explain  to  you  my  reasons  for  the  com- 
mand I  have  given  you.  You  know  the  results  of  disobeying 
that  command." 

"  Yes,"  she  returned,  her  voice  as  hard  as  his,  "  I  know." 


CHAPTER  IX 


DICK  MAXSE,  lounging  downstairs  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  vaguely  looking  for  something  to  do,  met  Pam 
on  her  way  to  her  room  after  leaving  her  grandfather. 

"  Hello,  Amelia,  where  are  you  off  to?  "  he  cried,  seizing 
at  the  chance  of  teasing  her  by  way  of  amusement. 

"  Where  is  Aunt  Rosamund  ?  "  she  asked,  unheeding  the 
nickname  she  detested,  and  which  seldom  failed  to  rouse  her 
to  the  anger  he  delighted  in. 

"  I'm  sure  I  haven't  the  remotest  idea,  my  dear!  I  never 
do  know,  as  you  may  have  observed.  Anything  wrong?  " 

Pam  disliked  him,  but  she  recognised  in  him  a  certain 
neglected  cleverness  which  made  her  unconsciously  wish 
she  did  not  dislike  him.  "  If  I  could  get  at  your  mind 
without  the  medium  of  your  own  self,"  she  had  once  told 
him,  "  it  wouldn't  ,be  bad  fun ;"  and  now,  suddenly  sitting 
down  on  the  stairs,  she  jerked  off  her  cap  and  said  quietly, 
"  I'm  leaving  to-morrow;  that's  all." 

"  Hello !  A  row  with  my  respected  beau-papa?  Do  tell 
me  all  about  it,  there's  a  good  girl." 

"  Well,  he  wants  me  to  go  to  Ireland  with  the  Duchess, 
and  I — have  other  plans.  I  am,  as  you  know,  very  fond  of 
my  grandfather,  but  he  is  frightfully — h'm! — pig-headed." 

"That  he  is!  And  you  being  very  firm,  you  have 
clashed!" 

In  the  dim  light  which  came  in  through  the  old  stained 
glass  window  on  the  landing  his  weak,  good-natured  face 
lost  many  of  the  ugly  marks  his  way  of  living  had  stamped 

182 


P  A  M  183 

on  it,  and  the  young  girl  felt  a  thrill  of  pity  for  him.  "  Look 
here,  Mr.  Maxse,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  you  look  awfully 
bad.  You'll  be  ill  if  you  don't  take  care." 

"  111 !  I'm  nearly  dead  already,  my  dear.  My  liver 
is  hopeless,  you  know,  and  as  to  stomach!  Hard  luck, 
isn't  it?" 

"  It's  your  own  fault.  I  say,  Uncle  Dick,  if  you  like, 
and  I  never  called  you  that  before,  why  don't  you  stop 
drinking?  " 

Maxse  waved  his  narrow,  white  hands  dramatically. 

"Stop  drinking!  My  dear  Pam,  how  do  you  know  I 
do  drink — except  milk?" 

"What  rot!  I'm  not  blind — or  deaf,  either,  and  they 
very  nearly  dropped  you  down  the  second  flight  the  other 
morning.  I  heard  them  and  peeped  out.  It  wasn't  nice, 
I  tell  you,  and  you  looked  exactly  like  a  red-faced  pig — so 
idiotic  and  blurred." 

"I  say !  You  have  a  nasty  little  tongue  of  your  own. 
Better  learn  to  hold  it,  my  dear."  He  rose,  flushed  and 
sulky. 

"  I  know ;  I  oughtn't  to  have  said  it,  but — well,  you  know 
I  don't  like  you,  and  yet  I  can't  help  being  sorry." 

Any  other  woman,  he  reflected,  would  have  expressed 
pity  for  his  wife;  it  was  wily  of  her  to  make  no  reference 
to  that  profoundly  uninteresting  sufferer. 

"  I  wonder  why  you  never  liked  me,"  he  exclaimed  sud- 
denly, sitting  down  again  and  turning  to  her.  "  I  always 
liked  you." 

"  No,  you  didn't.  Not  really;  and  I  don't  see  how  you 
could,  either,"  she  went  on  with  an  outburst  of  frank 
laughter.  "  I  mauled  you  pretty  badly  on  one  or  two  occa- 
sions, didn't  I  ?  But  it  was  because  you  tried  to  kiss  me." 

"  I  wonder,"  he  remarked  with  a  grin,  "  whether  you'd 
maul  me  if  I  tried  to  kiss  you  now?  " 


184  P  AM 

"  You  wouldn't  dare  to  now ;  I'm  grown-up." 

"  Grown-up-ness  isn't  usually  a  bar  to  a  young  female's 
being  kissed." 

"  Grown-up-ness  with  my  grandfather  to  back  it  is, 
though,"  she  returned,  adding  with  sudden  gravity,  "  Oh, 
dear,  I  forgot,  I  am  going  away!  " 

"  Nonsense.  Go  and  tell  him  you're  sorry ;  you  don't 
want  to  go  away,  you  know  you  don't." 

"  Of  course  I  don't,  but — what  can't  be  cured  must  be 
enjoyed!  " 

She  rose  and  held  out  her  hand.  "  I  am  going,  you  see, 
and  in  case  I  don't  see  you  again  alone,  Dick,  good-bye, 
and  do  think  of  your  liver." 

From  "  Mr.  Maxse  "  to  "  Uncle  Dick  "  had  been  a  great 
stride,  and  now  on  hearing  her  call  him  "  Dick  "  in  a  tone 
of  perfect  equality  he  felt  that  life  was  cruel  in  taking  her 
away  at  such  a  point.  Circumstances  chaining  him  to 
Monks'  Yeoland  for  a  couple  of  months,  nothing  would 
have  pleased  him  better  than  a  mild  flirtation  with  this 
curiously  attractive  little  fledgling,  and  now,  just  as  she 
had  begun  to  endure  him  (Maxse  put  it  in  this  way,  for 
he  was  not  fatuous)  and  to  take  in  him  that  semi-maternal 
interest  that  has  more  than  once  in  this  world  proved  a 
stepping-stone  to  more  amusing  things,  she  was  off!  He 
sighed. 

"  I'll  try,  Pam.  My  brute  of  a  liver  won't  stand  much 
more,  anyhow,  and  I'm  getting  old." 

"Rubbish!     You're  only  fifty;  that's  young  nowadays." 

"  Evelyn  thinks  it's  second-childhood." 

"  Evelyn's  a  goose,  and  besides,  you're  her  father.  Well, 
I'm  going — for  a  time,  anyhow.  If  grandfather  gets  too 
bored,  he'll  know  where  to  find  me.  Poor  old  G.  F." 

"Oh,  yes,  do  come  back;  I'm  sure  you  and  I  should  be 
good  friends  now." 


P  A  M  185 

She  laughed  and  went  slowly  upstairs.  "  I'm  not  so  sure 
of  that!  However,  good-luck  to  you." 

She  went  to  her  room,  informed  the  stricken  Pilgrim  that 
the  great  Progress  was  to  begin  a  new  chapter  the  next  day, 
and  then,  looking  up  her  aunt,  gave  her  the  same  information 
in  a  few  words. 

Evelyn,  who  was  weeping  in  the  dark  school-room,  roused 
suddenly  at  her  cousin's  announcement,  and  blew  her  nose 
with  more  vigour  than  her  forlorn  aspect  would  have  led 
one  to  give  her  credit  for  possessing.  "  Going  away !  Oh, 
Pam,  where?  " 

"  To  a  place  called  Torpington,  in  Derbyshire." 

"  Torpington  ?     I  never  heard  of  it." 

"  Do,  you  dever  did !  "  mimicked  Pam,  waking  Caliban, 
who  was  asleep  in  his  basket  near  the  dying  fire,  and  sitting 
down  on  the  rug.  "Are  you  going  to  blub  all  the  rest  of 
your  days,  Evy?  " 

"Yes,  I  am;  I  mean  no,  I'm  not!  Oh,  Pam,  do  tell  me 
what  you  are  going  to  do  there  ?  " 

"  I'm  going  to  visit  a  lady  who  is  ill,  and  who  is — con- 
nected with  my  family." 

"But  why  does  grandpapa  object?  Why  won't  he  let 
you  come  back?  " 

Pam  hesitated.  She  had  never  spoken  to  Evelyn  of  her 
mother  and  father,  and  did  not  care  to  do  so. 

"  Grandfather  wants  me  to  go  to  Ireland  with  the 
Duchess,"  she  began  slowly. 

"  Oh !  But  how  perfect  that  would  be !  Did  she  want 
you  to?" 

"  Of  course  she  did.  Did  you  think  grandfather  proposed 
her  taking  me  ?  Don't  be  a  silly !  " 

There  was  a  short  silence,  during  which  Evelyn  felt  the 
end  of  her  fiery  nose  with  a  gingerly  finger. 

"  You're  going  to  have  a  horrid  thing  there  if  you  cry  any 


186  P  A  M 

more.  I've  got  some  Vinolia  you  can  put  on,"  commented 
Pam  absently;  '"and  look  here,  Evy,  I've  had  a  long  talk 
with  Dearly  Belov — I  mean  with  Cecil  Morecambe.  He 
says  he'll  never  give  you  up.  I'm  to  tell  you  that.  Also, 
only  he  didn't  say  I  was  to  tell  you  this — he  is  scared  pea- 
green  by  grandfather,  and  doesn't  dare  say  so  much  as  '  boo ' 
to  him." 

"  It  wouldn't  do  much  good  his  saying  '  boo '  to  grand- 
papa, would  it,  Pam?  I  understand  Cecil,  and  I  know 
what  he  means.  '  He  also  serves  who  only  stands  and 
waits!'" 

Pam  stared  at  her  cousin,  who  uttered  the  words  with 
much  woe-begone  dignity,  and  then  burst  into  a  peal  of 
laughter. 

"  Oh,  Cally,  my  cherished  companion,  isn't  she  splendid? 
Go  on,  Evy,  do  some  more.  I'm  sure  you  think  that  is  in 
the  Bible,  don't  you?" 

But  Evelyn  left  the  room  in  search  of  solitude  and  inci- 
dentally of  Vinolia,  and  after  a  few  minutes'  reflection  Pam 
tucked  Cally  under  her  arm  and  set  off  to  make  one  or  two 
farewell  visits. 

To  Cazalet,  whom  she  found  nursing  a  bad  cold  over  a 
fire,  she  told  the  whole  story,  adding  when  she  had  finished 
it,  "  Of  course  you  see  that  I  could  do  nothing  else." 

The  old  steward  hesitated.  "  It  is  kind  and  good  of  you 
to  wish  to  go,  my  dear,  but,  after  all,  you  owe  a  great  deal 
of  consideration  to  his  lordship." 

"  I  know  I  do,  but  I  am  me,  and  I  have  a  right  to  live 
my  life  in  my  own  way." 

"  You  are  only  seventeen,  Pam.  Your  life  doesn't 
properly  begin  until  you  are  really  grown.  As  yet  you  are 
a  child,  and  you  ought  to  allow  your  grandfather  to  decide 
things  for  you." 

She    shook   her    head    gently.     "  But    I    can't    do    that, 


P  A  M  187 

Cazzy.  I  always  have  my  own  way;  I  always  have.  And 
as  to  being  '  grown/  I  fear  I'll  never  be  any  bigger.  I 
haven't  grown  a  bit  for  over  a  year." 

"  I  didn't  mean  that.  Well,"  the  old  man  broke  off  with 
a  sigh,  "  you  know  what  I  mean,  and  there's  no  use  in  my 
arguing  with  you." 

"  Not  a  bit,  dearest  and  best  of  Cazzies.  I  do  want 
some  tea,  may  I  go  and  wake  Mrs.  Hamp  ?  " 

A  few  minutes  later,  as  she  devoured  large  slices  of  bread 
and  jam  with  hearty  pleasure,  she  returned  to  the  subject 
of  her  departure.  "We  go  to-morrow  morning;  poor  old 
Pilly  is  busy  packing  now." 

Cazalet  had  an  idea.  "  Look  here,  my  dear,  will  you 
promise  me  one  thing?  " 

"  Dozens,  if  you  like." 

"  Well,  promise  me  that,  wherever  you  go,  you'll  always 
take  Jane  Pilgrim  with  you." 

Pam  looked  up  from  her  occupation  of  giving  bits  of 
sugar  to  the  monkey.  "  Of  course  I  shall.  I  always  do, 
you  know.  Imagine  me  without  Pilly!  Couldn't  pack  a 
trunk  to  save  my  life.  That's  an  easy  promise !  " 

Solemnly  she  gave  him  her  hand  on  it. 

"  And  to  please  your  grandfather,  who  is  so  very  fond 
of  you,  give  in  this  once.  Let  me  go  and  look  up  your  Mrs. 
Kennedy.  I'll  explain  it  all  to  her." 

"  You  couldn't  take  care  of  her,  though,  could  you  ?  And 
grandfather  might  object  to  your  staying  away  indefinitely, 
even  if  you  could.  No,  no,  Cazzy,  please  don't  bother  any 
more.  I'm  going,  and  there's  an  end  to  it.  I'll  write  to 
you,  and  mind  you  write  to  me,  and  tell  me  all  about 
my  grandfather,  for  he's  much  too  angry  to  answer  my 
letters." 

"  You're  going  to  write  to  him?  " 

She  laughed,  as  she  rose  and  buttoned  her  jacket.     "  Of 


188  P  AM 

course;  he'll  be  bored  to  death  without  me,  and  he'll  read 
my  letters,  though  he  won't  answer  them." 

"  Well,  he  ought  at  least  to  understand  that  it  is  a  kind 
and  womanly  instinct  that  urges  you  to  disobey  him;  a 
woman  is  never  more  a  woman  than  when  tending  the  sick." 

Pam  turned  quickly  to  him.  "  Oh,  please  don't  think  it's 
that.  I  mean,  only  that!  I'm  not  a  bit  womanly,  and  I've 
no  more  idea  how  to  tend  the  sick  than  the  Thingumbob  of 
Thibet  has.  I  do  pity  the  poor  woman,  and  besides,"  she 
hesitated,  a  faint  flush  coming  to  her  small  face,  "  it  seems  to 
me  that  she  has  a  sort  of  right  to  me — but  honestly  I  think 
it's  more  a  sort  of  curiosity  and — and — interest  in  the  queer 
situation  that  makes  me  go." 

"  Curiosity !  "     Cazzy  frowned  disapprovingly. 

"  Yes.  Not  altogether,  you  know — it's  all  a  jumble  of 
motives,  of  course,  as  usual,  but  I  do  like  change,  and  the 
more  one  sees  of  the  world  the  more  one  knows.  It  is  a 
queer  position  for  me,  to  be  staying  with  my  father's  wife. 
And  it  seems  full  of  possibilities  of  interest." 

"  I  wish  you  didn't  look  at  it  in  that  way,  my  dear.  It 
seems  to  me  that  your  only  excuse  for  deliberately  disobey 
ing  your  grandfather " 

But  she  interrupted  him  by  a  stormy  embrace  in  which 
he  was  afterwards  not  quite  sure  that  he  had  not  kissed  the 
monkey,  and  a  second  later  the  house-door  had  slammed,  and 
^he  was  gone. 


PART     IV 
CHAPTER    I 


PAM  leaned  back  in  her  corner  and  looked  at  Pilgrim's 
sour  visage  with  an  amused  smile.  The  windows  were 
dirty  and  streaked  with  rain;  she  could  see  nothing  of  the 
flying  landscape,  and  though  perfectly-  satisfied  with  the 
step  she  had  taken  she  was  as  yet  too  much  agitated  to  read. 

The  evening  before  had  been  very  quiet,  and  she  had 
spoken  to  no  one  besides  Evelyn,  who  had  gone  to  bed  with 
a  headache,  except  to  Burke  who,  hearing  of  her  projected 
departure  from  his  housekeeper,  who  was  a  sister  of  Mrs. 
Hamp,  had  come  to  see  her  after  dinner. 

As  sometimes  happens,  even  to  those  women  who  have 
great  power  over  men,  Burke  had  turned  the  tables  on  her 
completely  the  last  two  or  three  months.  Pam  had  thought, 
knowing  that  he  loved  her,  and  was,  as  she  naively  put  it 
to  her  grandfather,  only  waiting  for  her  to  grow  older, 
that  the  matter  stood,  in  all  simplicity,  waiting  for  a  touch 
from  her  hand  to  set  it  going. 

The  big  man's  self-control  was  an  open  book  to  her 
shrewd  eyes;  she  saw  him  start  at  her  approach,  change 
colour  at  her  touch.  It  had  interested  her,  and  when  the 
Duchess,  the  Lady  Henrietta,  and  Peele  had  appeared,  to 
turn  the  current  of  her  thoughts  from  him,  she  had  been 
on  the  point  of  embarking  on  the  alluring  waters  of  experi- 
ment with  him. 

The  engagement  of  Lady  Henrietta  and  Peele  had  so 
interested  her,  however,  that  Burke  was  for  the  time  for- 

189 


190  P  A  M 

gotten,  and  when,  in  lack  of  other  amusement,  she  had 
turned  again  to  him,  she  found,  to  her  rather  indignant 
surprise,  a  blank  wall,  so  to  speak,  presented  to  her  attack. 
Burke,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  himself  aware  of  the  strength  of 
his  own  passions,  and  astonished  by  the  hold  that  he  found 
she  had  over  him,  had  decided  to  keep  himself  in  hand 
until  the  time  should  come  when  he  should  dare  risking  a 
declaration  in  form. 

He  was  not  a  particularly  clever  man,  nor  was  his  mind 
a  well-trained  one,  but  he  had  learned  a  certain  amount  of 
rough  wisdom  in  his  not  uneventful  life,  and  one  of  his 
precepts,  backed  by  a  fairly  strong  will,  was  to  steer  clear  of 
danger  until  he  stood  a  fair  chance  of  overcoming  it. 

So  rather  to  Pam's  chagrin  her  tentative  airs  and  graces 
had  little  or  no  effect  on  him,  and  she  experienced  the 
humiliation  of  finding  herself  suddenly  relegated  to  the  posi- 
tion of  little  girl,  and  slightly  patronised  by  her  father's 
friend. 

Burke's  strong  vitality  had  always  attracted  her,  and  as 
is  often  the  case  with  small,  delicately  built  women,  his  very 
bulk  was  hardly  less  pleasing  to  her  than  his  great  physical 
force. 

She  was  too  natural  and  too  strongly  imbued  with  the 
Yeoland  characteristic  of  casualness,  as  her  grandfather  put 
it,  to  ever  become  that  rare  creature,  a  great  coquette  (une 
grande  coquette,  meaning  a  flirt  possessing  the  greatness  of 
her  faults),  but  she  was  full  of  curiosities,  and  very  naturally 
was  not  indisposed  to  play  with  and  experiment  with  the  big 
Australian's  feelings. 

So  when  she  found  herself  quietly  baulked,  she  had,  after 
one  or  two  attempts  to  break  down  what  she  perfectly  under- 
stood to  be  a  deliberate  barricade,  given  it  up  and  turned 
her  attention  to  something  else.  Riding  being  the  thing  on 
her  list  that  seemed  next  best  to  emotional  exploring,  and 


P  A  M  i9i 

her  grandfather  having  given  her  a  horse  for  Christmas, 
Burke  and  his  sentiments  soon  went  comparatively  out  of 
her  mind,  and  he,  unable  to  stand  country  life  in  England 
for  more  than  a  few  weeks  at  a  time,  had  again  taken  him- 
self to  town,  where  Dick  Maxse  had  heard  of  him  as  doing 
many  pleasant  and  amusing  things. 

Pam  laughed  to  herself  as  she  recalled  his  face  the  evening 
before  when  she  had  politely  inquired  after  the  health  of 
Totty  Barnes  and  Audrey  Lawrence,  two  aspirants  to 
dramatic  fame  whom  she  heard  Maxse  mention  to  her 
grandfather  in  connection  with  Burke.  It  had  been  great 
fun;  decidedly,  playing  with  fire  was  a  pastime  worth  culti- 
vating, and  she  decided  to  do  more  of  it. 

For  Burke,  upset  by  the  news  of  her  leaving  Monks' 
Yeoland  and  possibly  influenced  by  seeing  her  alone  in  the 
dimly  lighted  drawing-room,  had  greatly  to  her  satisfaction 
lost  his  head  utterly,  and  stammered  out  a  few  words  whose 
tone  rather  than  whose  meaning  had  made  her  shiver  with 
that  most  enchanting  sensation  to  every  woman  ever  created, 
however  most  of  them  may  protest,  of  having  power. 

He  had  caught  her  hand,  too,  and  covered  it  with  kisses, 
which  was  less  agreeable,  but  also  thrilling. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,  Pam,"  he  added,  wiping  his 
brow  with  his  handkerchief ;  "  you've  known  for  months, 
you  little  demon!  " 

"  I  suppose  I  do.     Why  am  I  a  little  demon?  " 

"  Ah,  bah !     Well— will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

That  queer  vibration  in  his  deep  voice  rang  in  her  ears  yet 
as  the  train  slowed  up  at  a  jaded-looking  little  station. 

She  had  forgotten  exactly  how  she  had  refused  him,  but 
she  remembered  that  he  had  not  been  as  cast  down  as  he 
might  have  been,  a  fact  which  she  rightly  explained  to  herself 
as  indicating  that  he  meant  to  try  again  some  day. 

"  It's  funny,  Pilgrim,"  she  exclaimed  abruptly,  as  the  train 


192  P  A  M 

started  again,  "  that  as  soon  as  one  gets  a  thing  one  doesn't 
want  it." 

"  It's  the  way  of  the  world,  Miss  Pam,  and  a  nasty 
troublesome  way,  too." 

"  Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  Pilly,  don't  gloom.  It  isn't  nasty 
at  all.  It's  a  very  clever  arrangement  for  keeping  one  inter- 
ested in  life." 

Pilgrim  did  not  answer.  That  excellent  woman  was  busy 
trying  to  decide  whether  she  was  glad  or  sorry  to  be  again 
setting  out  on  the  waters  of  adventure.  The  quiet  harbour 
had  been  very  pleasant,  and  no  one  could  tell  what  kind  of 
an  anchorage  they  should  find  in  Derbyshire,  but  at  the 
same  time  Monks'  Yeoland  had  what  Pilgrim  called,  in 
petto,  a  sameness. 

A  sudden  burst  of  laughter  from  the  young  girl  put  an 
end  to  these  reflections  by  at  least  momentarily  settling  the 
question  strongly  in  favour  of  the  haven  they  had  left. 

"  I  really  don't  see  'ow  you  can  laugh,  Miss  Pam,  I  must 
say,"  exclaimed  Pilgrim,  now  fully  satisfied  that  she  was 
an  injured  woman ;  "  think  of  all  the  beautiful  things  we 
have  left,  and  your  beautiful  bath-room,  and  your  dear 
grandfather,  to  say  nothing  of  your  aunt  and  cousin!  I 
can't  understand  'ow  you  can  laugh." 

"  Can't  you,  indeed,  Pilly?  No,  I  daresay  you  can't. 
That's  because  you  never  did  have  any  sense  of  humour! 
Yet  it  has  it's  funny  side.  Here  are  you,  you  see,  scamper- 
ing across  England  with  a  person  who  doesn't  even 
exist " 

"What  do  you  mean — a  person  who  doesn't  exist? 
That's  silly,  Miss  Pam." 

The  girl  laughed  again. 

"  No,  it  isn't,  it's  true.  I  don't  exist  in  the  eyes  of  the 
law!  And  yet,  here  we  are,  you  and  I,  rushing  off  to 
smooth  the  pillow  of — my  father's  wife !  " 


PAM  193 

"  You  hadn't  ought  to ;  it  seems  all  topsy-turvy  somehow. 
And  to  think  that  we  might  be  going  to  Ireland  with  a 
Duchess!" 

"  I  know.  I  am  sorry  to  miss  that,"  the  girl  returned, 
with  natural  youthful  regret  for  the  joys  foregone ;  "  but 
you  see  I  had  to  choose  between  two  things,  and  of  course 
I  chose  the  one  I  wanted  the  most.  Which  is  why  I'm 
not  crying  this  moment  at  having  left  my  darling,  wrong- 
headed  old  grandfather." 

"  It  will  be  dreadful  there — in  that  place,"  returned  the 
unfortunate  Pilgrim,  "  after  Monks'  Yoeland." 

"  Don't  let  Monks'  Yeoland  turn  your  head,  Pilly  mine ! 
Remember,  it  is  not  our  natural  sphere." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Pam,  but  it  is  mine.  I  was 
born  there  as  much  as  any  of  his  lordship's  own  servants." 

Pam  laughed.  "  I  beg  your  pardon.  Well,  when  we've 
done  our  duty  by  poor  Mrs.  Kennedy  we'll  rush  off  to  Rome 
and  amuse  ourselves.  Just  think  of  the  Pincio  in  the 
evening,  just  before  most  people  know  that  spring  has 
come!" 

The  train  stopped  again  as  she  spoke,  and,  rubbing  the 
moisture  from  the  window  with  her  handkerchief,  she 
looked  out  into  the  leisurely  confusion  of  another  small 
country  station. 

"  Oh,  bother,  here's  some  first  class  creature — a  servant 
in  livery!  They'll  be  sure  to  pop  him  in  here!  Why, 

Pilly,  it's "  as  the  door  opened  and  a  man  jumped  into  the 

carriage.     She  held  out   her  hand   to  him.     "Mr.   Peele! 
How  do  you  do?  " 

Peele  shook  hands  with  her  politely,  but  evidently,  in  the 
dusk  of  the  wintry  day,  did  not  recognise  her. 

When  he  had  sat  down  in  the  place  vacated  by  Pilgrim, 
he  leaned  over  and  looked  at  her.  "  You,  Miss  Yoeland ! 
how  very  curious." 


194  P  A  M 

"  Yes,  it's  I.  But  what  is  a  pillar  of  the  state  like  you 
doing  here  on  this  obscure  line  ?  " 

"  I'm  on  my  way  to  the  end  of  the  world,"  he  answered. 
"  I'm  going  home  for  Easter." 

Pam  laughed.  "  Do  you  know,  it  never  occurred  to  me 
that  you  had  a  home  ?  " 

"  Didn't  it?  I  have,  however,  or  at  least  I  have  a  house, 
and  I  happen  to  be  fond  of  it,  though  I've  not  been  near  it 
for  years.  How  is  Lord  Yeoland  ?  " 

"  Very  well,  thanks." 

"You're  not  alone?" 

"  Yes,  with  my  maid." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  seat  and  closed  his  eyes  as  if  very 
tired.  Clearly,  having  done  his  duty  he  did  not  mean  to 
talk  any  longer.  Pam,  however,  was  of  another  mind. 

"Why  aren't  you  going  to  Danchester  for  Easter?" 
she  asked,  perfectly  aware  of  the  impertinence  of  her  ques- 
tion. 

"  Because  I  preferred  to  go  to  Torpington,"  he  returned 
coldly. 

"  Torpington !  " 

"  That  is  the  name  of  the  town  near  where  my  house  is." 

"  But  7  am  going  to  Torpington !  " 

The  frank  pleasure  in  her  voice  roused  him,  and  he  sat 
up,  looking  at  her  as  the  lamp  overhead  burst  into  mediocre 
radiance. 

"You  going  there?     May  I  ask  to  whom?" 

Her  eyes  sparkled.     "  To  Mrs.  Kennedy." 

"Kennedy?  I  don't  know  them,  I  think.  Are  they  the 
people  who  have  taken  Rosedale?  " 

"  No.     She  lives  at  No.  4  Wellington  Terrace." 

In  the  pale,  unsteady  light  she  saw  his  face  change  to  a 
look  of  the  greatest  surprise. 

"Wellington  Terrace?     But " 


P  A  M  195 

"  Oh,  I  know.  It  is  in  the  town,  a  hugger-mugger  little 
villa  of  sorts;  but  there  I  am  going.  Your  expression 
would  gratify  my  grandfather;  it's  a  pity  he  can't  see  it!  " 

"  You're  trying  to  mystify  me.     Go  on." 

He  crossed  his  arms  and  dropped  his  head,  reminding  her 
of  the  first  time  she  had  seen  him. 

"  No,  I'm  not.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  so  glad  that  you 
are  going  to  be  within  distance  that  I  could  play  on  cymbals 
and  ortolans — or  what  are  the  things? — if  I  had  any." 

"  You  are  very  kind." 

"  You  don't  think  so.  You  are  still  angry  with  me. 
Please  forgive  me,  and  we'll  begin  over  again.  I  am  dread- 
fully young,  but  I'm  really  a  rather  nice  person,  and  I  was 
put  into  this  solemn  world  for  the  relaxation  and  amusement 
of  the  heavy-burdened  like  you." 

He  smiled. 

"  I  am  not  at  all  angry,  and  I  am  much  gratified  by  your 
kindness  in  being  glad  to  see  me.  Now  please  tell  me  what 
Lord  Yeoland's  grand-daughter  is  going  to  do  in  Wellington 
Terrace,  Torpington?" 

The  fun  left  her  face  with  the  dramatic  suddenness 
peculiar  to  her  changes  of  mood.  "  Come  and  sit  by  me, 
and  I'll  tell  you." 

He  obeyed,  turning  his  back  towards  Pilgrim  and  looking 
down  at  Pam,  who  puzzled  him  almost  as  much  as  she 
hoped  she  did. 

"I  am  not  going  as  Lord  Yeoland's  grand-daughter;  I 
am  going  as — as  Guy  Sacheverel's  daughter." 

"  Well  ?  What  has  your  father's  daughter  to  do  with 
Mrs.  What's-her-name  in  Torpington?" 

"  Mrs.  What's-her-name  in  Torpington  is — my  father's 
wife." 

Peele  started.  "  Good  heavens !  But,  my  dear  child, 
what  have  you  to  do  with  her?  " 


196  P  A  M 

She  saw  that  he  was  almost  embarrassed,  and  the  knowl- 
edge in  some  curious  way  confused  her. 

She  gave  a  nervous  laugh.  "  I  am  going — pour  epater  le 
bourgeois!  " 

"  But  surely  your  grandfather " 

"  Grandfather,  poor  dear,  being  the  bourgeois! " 

"  But  surely  you  would  not  put  yourself  in  such  a  false 
position  out  of  childish  mischief." 

"  No,  of  course  I  shouldn't,"  she  answered  sharply. 
"And  I  love  my  grandfather.  I  am  going  because  I  must." 

Taking  Mrs.  Kennedy's  appeal  from  her  pocket,  she 
handed  it  to  him,  and  studied  his  face  intently,  while  he  read 
it.  He  looked  worn  and  ill. 

At  last  he  looked  up.  "  It  is  a  rather  pitiful  letter.  You 
think  you  could  not  resist  it  ?  " 

"  I  know  I  could  not,"  she  returned  simply.  "  You  see 
it  was  my  father  who  hurt  her  so,  or  rather  he  was  going  to 
be  my  father." 

"  But,  now  that  I  recall  it,  surely  the  Duchess  told  me 
that  you  were  going  to  Ireland  with  her?  " 

"  The  Duchess  counted  her  chickens  before  they  were 
hatched." 

"  And  Lord  Yeoland ?  " 

"  Grandfather  forbade  my  coming;  we  are  now  no  longer 
on  speaking  terms." 

Peele  frowned.  "  You  mean  that  you  deliberately  dis- 
obeyed him  and  ran  away?" 

"  No,"  she  returned,  her  dark  eyes  meeting  his  grey  ones 
with  a  gaze  as  steady  as  their  own ;  "  I  mean  that  I  am  my 
own  mistress,  and  that  I  came  away." 

"  I   beg  your  pardon.     It   seems   a  pity.     Your  grand 
father  is  very  fond  of  you." 

"  Yes,  and  I  of  him." 

"  You  will  hate  Torpington." 


P  A  M  197 

"  No,  I  shan't.     I  like  new  places  and  new  people.     Then 

you  will  admit  that  the  situation  has  dramatic  possibilities!  " 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  of  course.     But  I  quite  agree  with  Lord 

Yeoland  that  you  do  not  belong " 

"In  that  galley;  which  happens  to  be  the  point!  I 
belong,  you  see,  in  no  galley — I  am  a  privateer." 

"  Poor  little  privateer,"  he  said  half  unconsciously,  and 
she  was  silent  for  a  moment;  she  decided  to  think  about  his 
remark  later,  for  it  meant  something. 

"  You  see  I  love  change,  and  experience  of  any  kind  is  a 
boon  when  you're  only  seventeen!  How  I  wish  I  were 
twenty-five!  " 

"  An  unnatural  wish.  I  say "  He  broke  off  sud- 
denly, and  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  What  on  earth  is  that?  " 

She  laughed,  a  laugh  delightfully  childish.  "  It's  my 
monkey!  Poor  Cally  boy,  did  he  sit  on  you  and  squash 
you?" 

The  monkey  clung  to  her  whimpering,  and  she  went  on 
making  little  interrupted,  broken,  nonsensical  speeches  to  it, 
as  women  do  to  despairing  babies. 

He  sat  down  and  watched  her  for  a  moment.  She  was 
so  young,  and  so  foolish,  that  she  rested  him,  tired  as  he 
was  with  over-work  and  political  worry. 

"  Look  here,  Miss  Yeoland,"  he  said  at  length,  "  if  I  were 
you  I  should  go  back  to  Monks'  Yeoland — upon  my  word, 
I  should." 

"And  if  I  were  you "  she  began,  and  then  breaking 

off  short. 

"Well,  what?" 
"  Nothing." 

"  You  evidently  delight  in  mystery ;  the  last  time  I  had 
a  talk  with  you,  you  began  to  say  something,  and  then 
refused  to  go  on." 

"Yes,  silence  being  golden!     Now  please  don't  torment 


198  P  A  M 

me.  Some  day,  if  you  are  very  good — and  if  I  haven't 
forgotten — I'll  tell  you  what  I  was  going  to  say.  It  was 
the  same  thing  each  time." 

"  Very  well,"  he  returned  politely,  "  I  shall  live  in  that 
hope.  The  next  station  is  Torpington." 

And  then,  leaning  back  in  his  corner,  he  drew  his  cap 
down  over  his  forehead  and  did  not  speak  again  until  they 
had  arrived  at  their  destination. 

"  Does  Mrs.  Kennedy  know  that  you  are  coming?  "  he 
asked,  as  they  went  through  the  little  waiting-room. 

"Yes;  I  wired  her,  but  I  shall  take  a  cab,  as  she  is 
paralysed  and  can't  come  to  meet  me." 

"  I  will  take  you  in  my  carriage.     Come." 

She  followed  him  in  silence,  and  in  a  few  minutes  they 
were  ploughing  through  the  mud  of  the  little  town,  the 
rain  maliciously  whipping  the  windows  of  the  brougham. 

When  at  length  the  carriage  stopped,  Peele  got  out  and 
helped  the  two  women.  "  Let  me  take  the  bag ;  I've  no 
footman.  This  seems  to  be  the  house.  Ah,  here  comes 
some  one." 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  Pam,  taking  it,  clung  to  it 
with  a  sudden  clasp.  "  I — thanks  for  bringing  us,"  she 
said  hastily.  She  looked  rather  pitiful,  he  thought,  and 
very  young. 

"  I'll  come  and  look  you  up  soon,  if  I  may?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  please  do.  It  will  be  such  a  comfort  to  have 
you,"  she  answered  warmly,  and  then,  with  another  strong 
shake  of  his  hand,  followed  Pilgrim  into  the  little  entry. 


CHAPTER  II 


THE  maid  who  opened  the  door  led  the  way  up  the  narrow 
stairs  with  its  vivid  carpet  and  bright  brass  rods,  along  the 
corridor  to  the  front  of  the  house,  and  paused  before  a  door. 

"  That's  'er  room,  miss,  and  if  you'll  go  on  in  I'll  take 
the  other  lidy  upstairs  to  your  room." 

"  The  other  lady  is  my  maid,  and  I'd  like  to  go  up  myself 
before  I  see  your  mistress.  We  have  had  a  long  journey 
and  I  should  like  some  hot  water,  please." 

"  Oh,  very  good,  miss,  only  she  said  I  was  to  bring  you 
right  away  in,  an'  she's  been  waiting  very  impatient." 

Pam  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  Very  well ;  go  on  upstairs, 
Pilgrim,  I'll  come  in  a  few  minutes."  Then  she  knocked. 

As  the  door  opened,  and  a  flood  of  rose-coloured  light 
poured  over  her,  she  realised  that  all  unconsciously  she 
had  made  for  herself  a  picture  of  Mrs.  Kennedy  and  Mrs. 
Kennedy's  room  which  was  almost  ludicrously  wrong  in 
every  detail. 

She  had  pictured  the  woman  to  whom  she  stood  in  such 
curious  relation  as  a  small,  pale  person  with  the  beauty 
of  patiently  borne  suffering  in  her  thin  face;  she  had  ex- 
pected this  woman  to  be  in  a  humble,  scrupulously  clean 
room  by  a  small  fire,  a  table  covered  with  bottles  beside  her. 

Instead  of  which  she  found  herself  accepting  a  kiss  which 
smelt  strongly  of  violet  soap,  from  a  very  fat  pink  and 
white  person  in  a  carefully  curled  fringe,  and  an  elaborate 
pink  and  white  tea-gown,  and  then  sitting  down  in  the 
pinkest  and  whitest  room  the  most  virginal  imagination 
could  possibly  conceive. 

199 


200  P  A  M 

"  Well,  my  dear,  so  you  have  come !  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  come."  The  girl  as  yet  could  find  but  few 
words. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  the  "  invalid,"  pointing  with  her 
white  hand  that  in  its  puffy  fatness  ridiculously  reminded 
Pam  of  Ratty's,  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  my  dear,  you  have  your 
father's  feet!" 

Pam  drew  the  foot  she  had  put  on  the  fender  back  under 
her  skirts  with  a  confused  feeling  that  it  ought  not  to  be 
like  her  father's;  that  by  having  such  feet  she  was  in  some 
curious  way  injuring  her  hostess,  until  that  lady  went  on 
cheerfully,  and  with  a  rapid  change  of  subject  evidently 
habitual  to  her.  "  He  had  beautiful  feet.  I  knew  you'd 
come." 

Between  the  involuntary  desire  to  protest  against  the  past 
tense  used  regarding  her  father  and  a  polite  wish  to  respond 
to  the  confidence  expressed  by  Mrs.  Kennedy,  Pam  muttered 
something  quite  incoherent,  and  then,  aided  by  an  inspira- 
tion, added  hastily:  "What  a  delightful  room  this  is." 

"  Oh,  you  like  it!  I  am  glad.  When  one  is  an  invalid, 
one's  surroundings  are  of  paramount  importance." 

"  Yes,  indeed.    May  I  look  round  a  little  ?  " 

She  rose  and  walked  about.  The  room  was  long  and  low, 
and  at  the  far  end  of  it  a  great  embroidered  screen,  mounted 
in  gilded  panels,  concealed  the  bed  and  the  washstand. 

The  walls  were  pink  and  white,  the  many  cushions  and 
the  deep  soft  arm-chairs  white  and  pink,  and  the  carpet  a 
bowery  mass  of  large  substantial  roses,  on  a  fawn-coloured 
ground,  of  the  some  cheerful  colours. 

"  I  never  leave  my  room  any  more,"  Mrs.  Kennedy  in- 
formed her,  turning  the  many  valueless  rings  on  her  hands 
as  she  spoke,  her  fat  face  broadened  by  a  good-natured 
smile,  "  so  I  made  it  as  tasty  as  I  could.  And  it  is  tasty, 
isn't  it?" 


P  A  M  20$ 

"  Extremely ;  tasty  seems  to  me  to  be  the  exact  word,'* 
returned  Pam  gravely. 

As  she  spoke  the  maid  came  in,  staggering  under  the 
weight  of  a  great  over-loaded  tray. 

"  I  thought  I'd  just  have  a  substantial  tea  to-night,  my 
dear,"  her  hostess  explained  apologetically.  "  I  suppose  you 
always  dine  late,  but  when  there's  no  gentlemen  in  the 
house  the  ladies  usually  dwindle  to  supper,  you  know,  and 
Hannah,  my  cook,  makes  very  nice  dishes  of  an  evening." 

Pam  was  hungry  and  the  queer  little  meal  was  good. 

While  she  ate,  Mrs.  Kennedy  babbled  placidly  on,  telling 
her  indeed  little,  but  rilling  her  tired  ears  with  a  buzzing 
of  not  unpleasant  sound. 

She  would  have,  she  knew,  plenty  to  think  about  when 
she  was  allowed  to  go  to  bed,  but  in  the  meantime  she  was 
comfortable. 

"  You  seem  to  take  after  the  Yeolands,  my  dear,"  the 
invalid  observed  at  length,  rousing  her  guest  from  a  half- 
reverie,  "  but  you  have  George's  eyes." 

Pam  had  never  heard  her  father  called  George,  and  it 
sounded  strange  to  her. 

"  Have  I  ?  "  she  asked,  setting  down  her  cup ;  "  no  one 
ever  said  so  before.  Every  one  says  mine  are  like  Cal — like 
my  monkey's." 

"  Well,  I  declare!  You  aren't  vain,  are  you?  Yes,  yours 
are  darker  than  his,  but,  then,  I've  seen  his  look — h'm! — 
tragical,  too !  " 

Pam  laughed.    "  Are  mine  tragical?  " 

"  They  are.  Your  hair  is  like  his,  too,  but  you  look  like 
your  mother  all  the  same." 

"  My  mother  is  very  beautiful  and  very  blonde,"  shortly. 
"  I  don't  look  in  the  least  like  her."  The  remark  had  jarred 
on  her,  somehow. 

Mrs.  Kennedy  laid  her  large  head  on  one  shoulder  and 


202  P  A  M 

brought  forth  a  deep  sigh.    "  I  have  seen  her — your  mother," 
she  said  in  a  voice  ludicrously  like  a  coo. 
"Oh!" 

"  Yes.    I  see  that  they  have  never  told  you  the  truth." 
"  They  have  never  told  me  anything  at  all.     I'm  afraid 
my  appetite  will  shock  you,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  am 
ravenous." 

"  I  am  glad.  Yes,  my  dear,  I  saw  her.  When  you  have 
finished  eating  I  will  tell  you  about  it." 

Pam's  appetite  wilted  under  this  remark,  as  was  perhaps 
not  unnatural,  and  she  suddenly  felt  an  overwhelming  de- 
sire for  solitude. 

"  May  I — I  am  very  tired,  you  will  not  mind  if  I  go  to 
bed?  It  is  rather  late." 

"  Oh,  certainly ;  you  must  be  tired.  I  have  not  tried  to 
thank  you  for  coming."  Mrs.  Kennedy  took  her  hand  and 
looked  up  at  her.  "  It  was  good  of  you.  To-morrow  we 
will  talk." 

Then  the  girl,  glad  to  be  released,  ran  upstairs,  and  a 
little  later  lay  staring  into  the  darkness,  thinking. 

After  all,  she  told  herself  with  youthful  severity,  Mrs. 
Kennedy  was  as  old  and  solitary  as  she  had  written;  that 
she  was  fat  and  dwelt  in  a  room  like  a  big  pink  bonbon  had 
no  particular  bearing  on  the  serious  aspects  of  the  case. 
And  Pam  herself  had  come,  if  half  out  of  delight  in  the 
unusual  situation,  yet  quite  half  out  of  a  feeling  that  she 
had  no  alternative. 

She  had  not  reasoned  the  case  out;  she  felt,  brought  in 
such  sharply  sudden  epistolary  contact  with  the  woman  her 
father  had  deserted,  no  equally  sudden  indignation  against 
her  father;  she  had  known  ever  since  she  could  remember 
that  Mrs.  Kennedy  existed,  and  the  idea  contained  no  horror 
to  her. 

Her  father,  when  she  thought  of  him  in  connection  with 


PAM  203 

her  visit  to  his  wife,  appeared  to  her  inner  eye  as  possibly 
disapproving,  but  quite  certainly  amused  by  her  act. 

There  was  in  her  case  no  conscious  bowing  to  the  dictates 
of  Duty — a  social  force  that  she  regarded  merely  as  a  tire- 
some bugbear;  she  had  responded  to  Mrs.  Kennedy's  appeal, 
as  she  told  Christopher  Cazalet,  partly  out  of  keen  interest 
in  the  unusual  situation,  and  partly  because  it  seemed  to 
her,  in  view  of  her  father's  position,  that  she  could  do 
nothing  else.  And  now  that  she  had  arrived,  her  own  dis- 
appointment in  the  general  lack  of  pathos  in  her  surround- 
ings, and  the  ludicrous  character  of  that  disappointment, 
was  by  no  means  lost  on  her  singularly  pellucid  mind. 

Her  last  conscious  thought  as  she  dropped  to  sleep  in  the 
room  whose  blueness  could  be  compared  only  to  the  pink- 
ness  of  the  one  under  it,  was  that  she  was  a  silly  little  idiot 
to  be  depressed  by  the  cheerfulness  of  the  poor  woman  she 
had  come  to  cheer,  and  that  she  would  feel  better  in  the 
morning. 


CHAPTER  III 


"OH,  yes,  Miss  Pam,  the  bed  is  very  good,  and  Maud,  as 
you  say,  seems  a  smart  young  woman  enough,  but  never- 
theless, this  'ouse  is  no  place  for  us." 

Pam  kicked  off  her  bath  slippers  and  held  out  one  foot 
for  the  stocking  Pilgrim  was  preparing  to  put  on  it.  "  There 
you  are  again,  Pilly,  being  proud!  What  right  have  the 
likes  of  us,  if  you  please,  to  turn  up  our  nomadic  noses  at 
a  comfortable  nest  like  this?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  a  nomadic  nose  is,  Miss 
Pam,  but  while  mine  never  set  up  to  be  Grecian,  I'm  sure 
it's  not  that.  And  to  the  'ouse,  just  wait  till  you've  seen 
the  drawing-room." 

With  this  dark  hint  the  good  woman  withdrew  into  the 
stronghold  of  what  Pam  called  her  monumental  silence,  and 
the  toilette  proceeded  leisurely.  It  was  a  fine  day,  and  the 
air  coming  in  at  the  wide-open  window  held  something  of 
spring-like  softness  that  reminded  Pam  that  it  was  the  last 
day  of  March. 

"  I  say,  Pilly,"  she  exclaimed,  as  her  handmaid  gave  a 
last  touch  to  her  interwoven  plaits,  "  spring  is  coming ! 
Aren't  you  glad  ?  Violets,  and  nice  smelly  spring  mud,  and 
new  clothes!  Hooray!" 

"New  clothes!  Yes,  Miss  Pam,  you  certainly  need  new 
clothes;  your  last  summer  ones  will  all  be  too  tight,  even 
if  we  had  'em  here,  which  it  is  we  'aven't." 

Pam  danced  a  few  steps,  snapping  her  fingers  over  her 
head.  "  We'll  go  to  London  some  day,  and  buy  much  purple 

204 


P  A  M  205 

and  fine  linen  and  frankincense  and  tincture  of  myrrh!  I'll 
write  to  father  for  money  this  very  morning." 

Pilgrim  watched  her  sourly.  The  good  woman  had  for 
years  honestly  believed  herself  to  be  not  particularly  fond 
of  Pam;  her  love  she  thought  was  all  given  to  Pauline. 
But  Pam  possessed  the  great  attraction  of  warm-heartedness; 
she  was  capable  of  more  affection  in  a  day  than  her  mother 
had  felt  in  her  whole  life,  barring  her  love;  and  really  loving, 
even  while  she  tormented  her  old  nurse,  the  girl  had,  uncon- 
sciously to  them  both,  called  forth  something  like  a  passion 
of  devotion  in  that  nurse's  grim  breast. 

"  Now,  Pilly,"  she  said,  stopping  her  dancing,  "  I'm  going 
down  to  see  Mrs.  Kennedy,  and  afterwards  for  a  walk; 
Caliban  must  stay  with  you.  Oh — and  before  I  go  out  I 
must  write  a  few  words  to  grandfather,  poor  dear;  he'll 
be  very  lonely.  So  put  the  writing  things  in  your  myste- 
rious drawing-room,  will  you?  " 

An  hour  later  she  burst  into  the  silent  sea  of  that  gor- 
geous apartment,  and,  falling  on  the  blotting-book  like  a 
hungry  dog  on  a  bone,  began  to  write  at  lightning  speed, 
bursting  into  soft  chuckles  as  her  pen  flew  over  the  paper. 

"  DEAR  GRANDFATHER:  Don't  drop  dead  at  my  cheek 
in  wishing  you  were  here!  For  even  though  you  rage  and 
wriggle  your  eyebrows  like  the  devil,  I  do  wish  it!  It's 
all  too  good  to  be  true,  and  it's  horrible  having  no  one 
to  enjoy  it  with  me! 

'  Cousin  Susie '  (that's  what  I  have  to  call  her,  and 
doesn't  it  remind  you  of  '  this  man's  father  is  my  father's 
son  ! ')  is  perfect,  and  the  house  quite  the  most  delicious 
thing  in  the  world.  But  I  must  begin  at  the  beginning. 
James  Peele  was  in  our  compartment  yesterday,  and  scolded 
me  roundly  for  coming.  It  must  be  consoling  to  you  to 
have  every  one  take  your  side!  It  appears  that  he  has  a. 


206  P  A  M 

house  near  here.  He  sat  on  Cally  (who  is  very  homesick 
and  sends  you  many  kisses) ,  but  otherwise  was  very  agree- 
able. We  reached  the  house  at  about  eight,  and  I  was  con- 
ducted at  once  to  '  Cousin  Susie's  room.' 

"  It  is  all  pink ;  I  felt  as  if  I  had  crawled  into  a  big 
raspberry  fondant,  and  I  must  look  like  a  fly  in  it,  I'm  so 
black.  And  she  is  as  pink  as  the  room,  hugely  fat,  and 
curiously  smooth-looking;  a  lovely  skin  gone  to  waste,  and 
round  blue  eyes,  and  a  sweetly  curled  '  front.'  I  was  dis- 
appointed at  first  to  find  her  so  chirpy  and  contented,  for 
I  had  got  all  nicely  screwed  up  to  tend  the  sick  and  smooth 
pillows,  as  Cazzy  says,  but  since  I've  seen  her  this  morn- 
ing I  am  more  than  consoled.  She  is  so  glad  to  have  me, 
and  to  hear  all  about  Monks'  Yeoland,  and  everything.  She 
hasn't  said  much  about  father  yet,  but  she  thinks  I'm  like 
him  in  some  ways.  I  expected  she'd  cry  a  little  over  me, 
for  I  came  so  near  being  hers,  you  know,  but  she  hasn't 
cried  a  tear.  I  think  she  is  perfectly  happy  in  her  way, 
only  lonely,  and  that  she  thinks  of  father  as  being  still 
young.  She  was  quite  angry  with  me  this  morning  for 
saying  that  he's  getting  fat.  (He  is,  you  know.) 

"This  room  in  which  I'm  writing  is  the  drawing-room; 
all  bright  gilt  and  red  stuff  almost  like  satin.  Father  never 
lived  here;  she  came  after  her  'misfortune'  (that's  what 
she  calls  father's  running  off  with  mother).  She's  lived 
all  alone  ever  since  the  '  misfortune,'  and  for  years  she  has 
been  perfectly  helpless — paralysis  in  the  legs.  All  her  rela- 
tives are  dead.  Isn't  it  funny  that  in  spite  of  all  the  sad 
things  that  have  happened  to  the  poor  thing,  one  doesn't 
pity  her?  I  tried  like  mad  to  be  sorry  for  her  when  she 
showed  me  her  miniature  (she  must  have  been  awfully 
pretty!)  and  father's,  taken  just  after  they  were  married, 
and  then  I  looked  back  at  her  huge  rosy  face  and  couldn't 
be  sorry! 


P  A  M  207 

"Isn't  it  all  topsy-turvy?  Now  I'll  go  out  and  prowl 
about  until  I  find  the  post-office  and  send  this  off  to  you. 
I  do  hope  your  gout  is  better.  Don't  be  too  angry  with  me, 
dearest  G.  F. ;  I'm  not  a  bit  angry  with  you  any  more,  and 
I  love  you  very  much.  "PAM." 

The  young  girl  addressed  her  letter  and  then,  with  a  final 
glance  at  the  splendour  of  the  apartment,  went  again  to 
her  hostess's  room. 

Mrs.  Kennedy  had  by  this  time  finished  her  toilette  and 
wore  a  rose-coloured  tea-gown  evidently  made  in  Paris, 
and  as  evidently  made  for  quite  other  uses  than  being  worn 
by  a  more  than  middle-aged  paralytic  in  an  English  pro- 
vincial town. 

By  her,  a  sharp  contrast,  in  her  ill-made  serge  coat  and 
skirt  and  a  flat  felt  hat  attached  to  her  head  by  the  unbe- 
coming means  of  a  narrow  elastic  band  that  had  drawn  the 
scanty  knot  of  dun-coloured  hair  into  a  Grecian  prominence 
eminently  disadvantageous  to  her  chinless  profile,  sat  an- 
other woman  whom  Mrs.  Kennedy  introduced  to  her  guest 
as  her  dearest  friend,  Miss  Botson. 

Pam  gave  her  hand  to  this  lady,  who  squeezed  without 
shaking  it,  saying  with  a  great  display  of  teeth  like  an  old 
horse's,  and  a  curious  tremor  in  her  voice:  "  I  knew  you 
would  come !  " 

"  Did  you,  indeed,"  returned  the  girl,  looking  like  her 
grandfather. 

"  Yes.  Noblesse  oblige.  I  knew  you  could  not  refuse 
dearest  Susie's  appeal !  " 

"  Very  kind  of  you,  I'm  sure.  I  was  very  glad  to  be  able 
to  be  useful  to — to  any  one." 

Miss  Botson's  face  again  underwent  the  paroxysmal  eclipse 
behind  her  teeth  which  ungenerous  Nature  had  given  her 
as  a  smile. 


208  P  A  M 

"  Of  course,  to  any  one,  and  to  her,  of  all  people.  I  said 
to  her,  didn't  I,  Susie,  '  Anything  she  can  do  will  be  done, 
if  she  has  a  heart  in  her  bosom.'  " 

Pam,  rather  surprised  at  the  excitement  displayed  in  the 
stranger's  voice,  restrained  herself  with  something  of  an 
effort  from  boxing  her  little  twisted  ears,  and  turned  to 
Mrs.  Kennedy. 

"  I  am  going  for  a  walk ;  is  there  anything  I  can  do  for 
you?" 

As  she  spoke,  her  letter  slipped  from  her  hand,  face  up- 
wards, and  before  she  could  reach  it  Miss  Botson  had  picked 
it  up  and  returned  it  to  her.  "  Your  dear  grandfather  must 
miss  you,  I  am  sure." 

Again  Pam  longed  to  injure  her,  and  with  a  hasty  bow 
left  the  room  and  went  out  into  the  fresh  sunny  morning. 

"  Loathsome  creature !  "  she  thought,  skipping  across  the 
muddy  street  and  turning  to  the  left.  "  How  she  did  stare 
at  me !  I  shan't  be  able  to  stand  much  of  her!  " 

The  town,  she  found,  was  dismal  and  ugly;  rows  and 
rows  of  dingy  houses,  a  cheaply-built  street  of  unattractive 
shops,  several  churches,  in  which  she  took  not  the  slightest 
interest,  and  then  more  houses.  When  she  had  found  the 
post-office  and  dropped  her  letter  into  the  box  she  stood 
for  a  moment  looking  up  and  down  the  sleepy  street  won- 
dering which  way  to  go. 

"  I  wish  I  could  get  out  into  a  country  road,"  she  said 
to  herself.  It  was  a  day  when  the  most  urban  mind  turns 
to  rural  thoughts. 

A  rosy-faced  country  woman  entering  the  post-office  with 
a  basket  on  her  arm  solved  the  problem  by  telling  her 
to  cross  the  street  and  take  the  lane  to  her  left.  "  Grey 
Mare  Lane,  Miss ;  the  grey  mare  will  carry  you  quick  to  our 
side  of  the  town — much  the  finest,"  her  informant  told  her, 
and  with  a  laugh  at  the  joke  Pam  followed  her  directions. 


P  A  M  209 

In  half  an  hour's  time  she  was  rushing  full  tilt  down  a 
deeply  sunk  country  road,  splashing  through  the  wet  clay 
with  childish  pleasure,  sniffing  the  mild,  damp  air  and  study- 
ing the  dark  buds  on  the  hedgerows  with  the  deep  though 
possibly  passing  interest  of  the  stranger. 

"  Good  old  sky,  how  blue  you  are!  " 

She  was  only  seventeen  and,  possessing  more  capacity  fo» 
both  joy  and  sorrow  than  nine-tenths  of  the  women  in  Eng- 
land that  day,  sang  and  talked  to  herself  in  her  delight  that 
winter  was  over. 

Mrs.  Kennedy  was  not  what  she  should  have  been;  Lord 
Yeoland  was  angry,  and  it  would  take  more  than  that  saucy 
letter  to  soften  him;  she  had  only  six  shillings  in  her  purse; 
Evelyn  was  a  donkey  and  Cecil  Morecambe  a  fool;  not  a 
soul  on  earth  approved  of  her  behaviour;  Pilgrim  was 
grumpy ;  and  Miss  Botson  existed.  All  of  these  things  were 
both  incontrovertible  and  unpleasant,  but  what  were  they 
weighed  against  seventeen  years  and  the  first  mild  morning 
in  the  spring? 


CHAPTER  IV 


TWO  or  three  days  later  Mrs.  Kennedy  gave  Pam  hei 
version,  a  carefully  detailed  version,  punctuated  by  a  start- 
ling variety  of  emotional  smiles  and  tears,  of  her  "mis- 
fortune." 

It  was  a  dull,  dark  day,  and  the  three  windows,  behind 
their  rosy  curtains,  were  grey  with  rain.  Pam  sat  in  a 
low  chair  by  the  fire,  opposite  her  hostess,  who,  having  run 
the  gamut  of  her  tea-gowns,  was  again  wearing  the  much- 
frilled  one  in  which  the  girl  had  first  seen  her.  Something 
of  her  early  surprise  at  the  results  of  a  long  life  of  misfortune 
and  disappointment  came  over  Pam  again  as  she  watched  the 
complaisant  pink  face  bending  with  what  was  perilously 
near  being  a  smirk  over  the  open  drawer  of  the  table  at  her 
elbow. 

If  she  had  ever  been  disposed  to  lament  over  her  father's 
sin,  the  sight  of  her  victim's  comfortable  person,  perfectly 
self-satisfied  in  her  preposterously  pink  setting,  would  doubt- 
less have  been  a  certain  consolation;  as  it  was,  she  awaited 
her  companion's  first  words  with  a  mixture  of  disdain  and 
amusement. 

"  This  pocket-book  was  his,  Pamela ;  and  all  his  letters 
to  me  are  in  it.  Take  them  and  read  them.  There  ain't 
many." 

Pam  felt  a  pang,  as  she  took  the  worn  old  green  leather 
receptacle.  No,  she  could  not  fancy  her  handsome,  idle 
father  writing  many  letters  to  this  poor  woman.  And  yet 
he  had  married  her! 

210 


P  A  M  211 

Half  reluctantly  the  young  girl  took  out  the  letters,  each 
of  which  was  in  its  envelope. 

"  Read  'em  in  order,  my  dear;  I've  numbered  them,  you 
see;  they  explain  themselves." 

Susan  Kennedy  spoke  carefully,  slowly,  and  with  a  cer- 
tain pomp  of  voice.  The  occasion  was  a  sort  of  ceremony, 
Pam  realised,  as  she  opened  the  first  letter,  which  was  ad- 
dressed to  Miss  Susan  Chiddick. 

"  My  DEAR  Miss  CHIDDICK:  I  am  sending  you  to-day 
the  copy  of  Tennyson's  Lyrics  which  you  kindly  said  you 
would  accept  from  me.  Please  read  the  marked  ones.  Hop- 
ing to  see  you  to-morrow  at  Mrs.  Brown's, 

"  I  am,  yours  sincerely, 

"  G.  KENNEDY/' 

The  writing  was  larger  than  her  father's  as  the  girl  knew 
it,  and  much  more  distinct.  The  second  and  third  notes 
were  much  like  the  first,  one  referring  to  a  promised  walk, 
the  other  about  a  song  she  had  sent  him.  The  fourth 
startled  her,  for  it  began  abruptly: 

"  After  the  way  you  treated  me  last  night  I  cannot  venture 
to  think  that  you  would  care  to  see  me  before  I  go  back  to 
London." 

"  How  had  you  treated  him  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  up  to 
find  Mrs.  Kennedy's  eyes  proudly  fixed  on  her  face. 

"  'Orrid,  my  dear,  'orrid!  It  was  a  ball,  and  I  took 
a  fancy  not  to  dance  with  him;  a  girl's  trick.  He  stood 
in  a  corner  and  glared  at  me,  poor  dear."  Her  broad 
flabby  face  assumed  a  coquettish  smile  that  struck  Pam 
as  very  pathetic,  though  so  ludicrous. 


212  P  A  M 

Without  answering,   the  girl  went  back  to   the  letter: 

"  If  I  have  offended  you,  please  let  me  know  how,  that  I 
may  beg  your  pardon;  if  you  were  only  playing  with  me, 
there  is  no  object  in  my  staying  on  here  any  longer.  G.  K." 

"  Proud  as  a  peacock,  wasn't  he?  " 

"  Apparently.    What  did  you  answer?  " 

"  Read  the  next  letter." 

As  she  read  the  next  one  a  slow  flush  crept  up  under 
Pam's  clear  skin.  It  was  a  love-letter,  full  of  short  quota- 
tions, but  also  full  of  sincerity  and  happiness.  Her  father 
had  really  loved  this  woman  in  the  offensively  pink  gown! 

It  gave  her  pride  a  shock.  Then,  looking  up,  the  honest 
tenderness  in  Mrs.  Kennedy's  faded  blue  eyes  touched  her 
again.  "  You  seem  to  have  been  very  happy — then,"  she 
faltered. 

"  Oh,  yes.  We  were  married  in  August,  and  went  to 
Scotland  on  our  tour.  He  was  very  handsome  then." 

"  And  you  were — lovely." 

"  Yes,  I  was  a  pretty  girl.  He  was  proud  of  me.  too. 
Go  on,  read  the  rest." 

The  next  letter,  addressed  to  Mrs.  George  Kennedy,  was 
written  a  year  and  a  half  later,  and  was  full  of  great  en- 
thusiasm and  hope.  It  described  the  writer  singing  for  a 
great  Italian  tenor,  to  whom  one  of  the  partners  of  the 
broker's  firm  in  which  he  was  a  clerk  had  introduced  him. 

"  He  says  my  voice  is  wonderful,  Susie  dear,  and  that 
after  a  couple  of  years'  study  I  can  command  my  own  price, 
for — opera  singing!  Isn't  it  glorious,  little  woman?" 

"You  were  very  proud,  I  suppose?"  asked  Pam,  folding 
the  letter  and  returning  it  carefully  to  its  yellowing  en- 
velope. 


P  A  M  213 

"  Proud !  Wasn't  I  ?  But  it  was  the  cause  of  the  whole 
trouble,  my  dear,  after  all.  You  see,  the  Platts  (that  was 
the  firm,  Platt  &  Roberts)  took  him  up  and  used  to  invite 
him  to  dinner,  to  have  him  sing  for  them  and  their  friends. 
He  had  always  sung  like  a  bird,  any  way,  and  he  learned 
no  end  of  songs  in  a  few  months.  It  turned  his  head !  " 

Pam  flushed  again.  "  And  then  he  sang  in  opera  ?  His 
debut,  I  know,  was  in  Faust.  Mother  told  me  that  once." 

"  Yes.  I  was  there,  but  he  had  got  far  beyond  me  by 
that  time.  Not  that  he  wasn't  kind.  He  was  always  kind, 
but  he  had  got  used  to  being  with  great  ladies,  you  know, 
and  he  felt  the  difference.  And  then  he  went  to  Monks' 
Yeoland  and  met  your  mother."  She  paused.  It  was  almost 
ludicrously  evident  that  all  the  bitterness  of  her  desertion 
had  long  since  gone;  she  was  enjoying  her  own  retrospective 
emotion  and  her  position  as  heroine  of  the  story  she  told. 
Pam  listened  gravely. 

"  Your  grandfather  had  met  him  somewhere,  gone  mad 
over  his  singing,  and  at  last  took  him  down  into  the  country. 
I  hadn't  seen  George  ('e'd  changed  his  name  when  he  went 
on  the  stage,  you  know,  but  not  legally  until  I  refused  to 
divorce  him)  for  two  months,  but  when  he  came  back  home 
after  that  visit  I  knew  something  had  happened.  And  to 
do  him  justice,  he  didn't  deny  it.  '  George,'  I  said,  '  what 
is  it?'  And  he  said  to  me,  '  Susie,  my  poor  girl,  I'm  the 
wretchedest  man  in  the  world ! '  And  then  he  told  me. 
He  wanted  me  to  divorce  'im,  you  know,  but  I  did  draw 
the  line  there.  And  then  he  raged  and  coaxed,  and  coaxed 
and  raged  by  turns,  for  weeks.  At  last  he  went  down  to 
Monks'  Yeoland  again,  and  they  had  it  out.  You  know 
the  rest.  What  they  did,"  added  the  speaker  cheerfully, 
"  blighted  my  life  for  ever." 

Pam  almost  burst  out  laughing. 

"Did  you  really  care  very  much?"  she  asked. 


214  P  A  M 

"  Did  I  care?  My  dear,  I — loved  him."  And  the  girl 
saw  that  it  was  the  truth. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  only — you  seem  so — so  contented 
now." 

"  Time,"  declared  Mrs.  Kennedy  solemnly,  "  is  a  uni- 
versal panacea." 

After  a  moment  she  added :  "  Read  the  other  letters. 
There  are  only  two." 

The  first  of  the  two  was  very  long,  and  written  by  a  man 
nearly  out  of  his  mind  with  passion  and  pain.  It  was  an 
appeal,  almost  magnificent,  to  a  pride  that  did  not  exist, 
to  a  generosity  that  few  women  have  owned,  and  which 
certainly  did  not  belong  to  the  one  to  whom  it  was  made. 
The  upshot  of  her  refusing  to  give  him  the  liberty  for  which 
he  begged  would  be,  he  said,  not  in  his  returning  to  her, 
but  in  his  shooting  himself.  It  was  for  her  to  drive  him  to 
his  death. 

"  Your  mother,  you  know,"  began  Mrs.  Kennedy,  when 
Pam  had  reached  this  point,  "  decided  that!  The  day 
after  I  got  that  letter  I  bought  my  ticket  (second  class) 
and  went  to  Monks'  Yeoland.  I  was  on  my  way  to  the 
house  when  I  met  her  in  the  avenue.  When  I  told  her 
who  I  was  she  turned  white,  and  then  took  me  into  a 
ruin  near  the  house,  where  a  big  tree  grows,  and  told  me 
that  for  her  part  she  did  not  care  one  straw  about  the  di- 
vorce. It  was  George  ('  Guy '  she  called  him)  that  she 
wanted,  and  that  now  I'd  refused  the  divorce  she  would 
telegraph  him  to  come  and  they'd  go  off  together." 

Pam  nodded.    "  And  they  went." 

"  They  did.  Once  they'd  gone,  I  nearly  went  off  my 
head.  Of  course,  between  she  and  I  there  was  no  com- 
parison, though  I  was  pretty,  and  she  was  ten  years  younger, 
too.  But  I'd  loved  George  for  years,  and  he  was  mine." 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  that  simple  argument 


P  A  M  215 

"  he  is  mine,"  and  Pam  silently  acknowledged  it.  A  minute 
later  she  added :  "  You  went  to  see  my  grandfather  I  know." 

"  Yes.  You  see,  I'd  always  heard  that  repentance  isn't 
long  in  coming  in  such  cases,  and  I  thought  that  she  was 
probably  sick  and  tired  of  being — h'm — that.  George  al- 
ways hated  tears  and  moping,  so  I  thought " 

"  You  thought  that  mother  would  have  begun  to  bore 
him  with  remorse!  And  that  he'd  be  glad  of  an  excuse 
to  leave  her!  " 

Pam's  eyes  shone  with  delighted  amusement. 

"  Yes.  It  wouldn't  have  been  the  first  time  that  it  has 
happened.  But,  as  you  know,  it  didn't  happen  this  time. 
His  lordship  was  very  pleasant,  I  must  say." 

Pam  rose  and  went  to  a  window  to  hide  her  face.  How 
her  grandfather  would  have  enjoyed  the  recital  she  had 
just  heard!  The  woman  in  question,  the  one  who  had 
made  all  the  trouble  by  stealing  the  other  one's  husband, 
was  the  daughter  of  the  one,  the  mother  of  the  other,  but 
they  would  have  equally  rejoiced  in  the  unconscious  ab- 
surdities of  the  half-pathetic  victim. 

"And  they  are  still  happy?" 

The  girl  turned.  "  Absolutely,"  she  returned,  with  em- 
phasis. "  It  does  seem  absurdly  unjust,  of  course,  but  they 
are  both  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long,  and  as  good  as  gold." 

"  Good  ? "  Mrs.  Kennedy,  perhaps  naturally,  did  not 
understand. 

"  I  mean  kind  and  cheerful  and  generous." 

Inwardly  she  asked  herself  what  would  have  been  the 
result  of  a  submission  on  her  mother's  part  to  the  laws  of 
God  and  man?  She  could  not  imagine  her  existing  with- 
out her  father,  nor  him  without  her.  Would  the  glow  of 
conscious  virtue  have  given  them  as  much  as  had  the  splendid 
life  they  had  stolen? 

She  doubted  it,  or  rather  she  was  sure  in  her  young  mind 


2io  P  A  M 

that  her  mother,  without  her  father,  would  have  been  a 
bitter,  unhappy  woman,  a  joy  neither  to  herself  nor  to  others. 

Being  herself  much  cleverer  than  Pauline  could  under 
any  possible  circumstances  have  become,  the  young  girl 
wasted  no  thoughts  on  the  intellectual  development  which 
might  have  consoled  some  women,  nor  on  comfort  of  piety 
and  good  works. 

She  believed,  without  reasoning  on  the  subject,  that  her 
mother,  in  developing  her  powers  for  happiness,  had  de- 
veloped the  best  that  was  in  her;  and  this  seemed  to  her  to 
be  enough. 

And  this  was  what  she  had  meant  in  saying  that  they 
were  good. 

Mrs.  Kennedy  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  with 
a  loud  sigh,  took  the  pocket-book  and  laid  it  away  in  the 
drawer.  When  she  had  done  this  Pam  came  back  to  the 
chair  in  which  she  had  been  sitting,  and  leaning  with  both 
hands  on  its  back  said  abruptly:  "  And  when  you  asked  me  to 
come,  what  did  you  want  me  to  do?  " 

"To  do — why — just  what  you  have  done,  my  dear!  " 

"  But  you  don't  need  me." 

"  That's  what  Anna  said  you'd  say.    I  don't  see  why !  " 

"Who's  Anna?" 

"  Anna  Botson." 

"  How  does  Miss  Botson  know  what  I'd  say?  She  can't 
have  known  what  I  was  going  to  say,  for  I  didn't  know  my- 
self, until  a  minute  ago." 

"  Well,  she  guessed.    Anna  is  very  sympathetic." 

"  Oh!    Well,  now  that  I  am  here — are  you  glad?  " 

Pam  herself  did  not  look  particularly  glad,  and  Mrs. 
Kennedy  flushed. 

"  Of  course  I'm  glad.  It  was  kind  of  you.  No,  don't 
deny  it,"  she  added  hastily,  as  the  girl  was  about  to  speak, 
"  it  was  very  kind." 


P  A  M  217 

"  I'm  not  going  to  deny  it.  I  meant  to  be  kind.  Only  I 
don't  seem  to  be  of  much  use.  Maud  is  so  extremely  cap- 
able," she  concluded  appreciatively. 

"  You  didn't  expect  to  find  me  dependent  on  you  for — 
for  personal  services?  I've  always  lived  like  a  lady,  my 
dear."  Mrs.  Kennedy  was  almost  offended. 

"  Of  course  not,  but — I  feel  useless.  Your  letter,  you 
see,  did  not  prepare  me  for  such  a — a  charming  house,  and 
all  that." 

Mrs.  Kennedy  bridled.  "Yes;  it  is  a  genteel  little  place. 
To-morrow  one  or  two  ladies  are  coming  to  tea;  that  will 
be  pleasant  for  you." 

Pam  had  a  horrible  vision  of  the  ladies  drinking  tea. 

"Mrs.  Nickerson  is  very  nice;  she  has  been  in  Paris 
twice;  her  husband  is  the  dentist,  and  quite  the  gentleman." 

"  Yes,  dentists  usually  have — extremely  good  manners," 
answered  the  girl,  "  they  are  very  amiable."  Then  she  burst 
out  laughing  at  the  absurdity  of  her  own  remark. 

"  I  have  a  headache,"  she  said,  "  I  think  I'll  go  for  a 
walk." 

Mrs.  Kennedy  nodded.  "  Yes,  do,"  she  said  kindly,  "  the 
sun  seems  to  be  coming  out." 


CHAPTER  V 


THE  air  was  warm  and  moist,  and  the  lumpy  ploughed 
fields  steamed  in  the  pleasant  sun. 

Pam  tramped  along  through  the  heavy  clay,  glad  to  be 
in  the  air  again,  glad  that  the  rain  had  stopped,  glad  that 
there  was  a  chance  of  finding  some  kind  of  a  small  flower 
cowering  under  the  bank. 

She  did  not  know  what  flower  to  expect,  but  knew  that 
the  mild  spring  with  its  coaxing  rains  had  waked  the  red 
earth  earlier  than  usual,  and  there  was  pleasure  in  not  know- 
ing whether  the  first  flower  would  be  a  violet  or  a  prim- 
rose. 

She  was  tired  of  thinking  about  her  father  and  his  erst- 
while wife;  she  was  a  little  home-sick  for  Monks'  Yeoland, 
whence  no  word  had  come,  and  she  had  begun  to  think  that 
having  one's  own  way,  though  charming,  can  also  prove  a  dis- 
appointment. So  it  was  pleasant  to  empty  her  mind  of 
thought,  and  hold  it  up  to  be  filled  by  the  spring  day. 

Presently  the  road  took  a  sharp  turn  to  the  right,  and 
crawling  up  a  low  hill  stretched  on  again  flat  and  gleaming 
in  the  sun  towards  a  small  park  enclosed  by  a  rough  stone 
wall. 

"  I  wish  that  were  Mr.  Peele's  place,  and  he'd  come  out 
of  the  gate  as  I  pass,"  she  thought,  recalling  her  travelling 
companion  for  the  first  time.  "  What  a  brute  he  is  not  to 
come  to  look  me  up !  "  It  was  cooler  on  the  upland,  and 
she  rebuttoned  her  jacket.  "  Pilly  and  I  must  go  to  London 
and  get  me  some  clothes,"  she  went  on ;  "  the  seams  of  this 

218 


P  A  M  219 

old  thing  are  at  bursting  point,  and  I  couldn't  get  into  the 
blue  one  to  save  my  life !  " 

She  came  to  the  corner  of  the  old  park  wall  as  she  spoke 
aloud  to  herself,  and  going  to  the  wall,  she  drew  herself  up 
and  peered  over  it. 

The  house  she  could  see  but  dimly  through  a  plantation 
of  firs  planted  between  it  and  the  north-east,  but  its  chim- 
neys were  all  asmoke,  and  to  one  side  of  it  a  gardener  was 
busy  at  work  on  a  tulip  bed,  whistling,  "  Tell  me,  pretty 
maiden,"  a  quarter  of  a  tone  flat,  but  joyously. 

"  Oh,  dear,  there  are  bound  to  be  nice  people  in  there ; 
girls  and  boys,  and  a  jolly  old  grandfather,  perhaps!  How 
disgusting  it  is  to  be  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  wall !  " 

Quite  suddenly  the  sadness  that  is  in  the  spring  caught 
her  by  the  throat,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  lonely  tears. 

The  gardener  was  still  whistling,  and  as  she  stepped  back 
from  the  wall  a  small  dog  yapped  in  the  distance. 

The  house  with  its  own  unknown  inmates,  the  people  who 
owned  the  dog,  who  were  going  to  enjoy  the  tulips,  inspired 
the  girl  with  the  greatest  interest  and  curiosity. 

"  I  suppose  I'm  home-sick  because  this  place  looks  like 
a  home,"  she  thought.  "  Think  I'll  walk  all  round  the  wall, 
and  perhaps  I'll  see  some  of  them." 

The  tangle  of  dead  grass  under  the  wall  was  soaked  and 
slippery,  but  she  started  off,  stopping  now  and  then  to  climb 
up  and  peer  over  into  the  enchanted  unknown,  full  of  plea- 
sure in  her  idea.  The  house,  she  found,  after  turning  the 
first  angle  of  the  wall,  was  a  small,  shabby  old  place,  cov- 
ered with  creepers  that  hung  forlornly  even  from  the  grace- 
ful twisted  chimneys.  It  looked  rather  deserted,  too,  in 
an  indefinable  way. 

"  I  believe  it  is  James  Peek's  place,"  she  decided  sud- 
denly, "  it  looks  like  him,  somehow.  Oh,  there's  some  one 
in  the  window!  " 


220  P  A  M 

And  the  man  who  came  to  the  window,  holding  a  glass 
of  some  red  liquid  to  the  light,  and  looking  critically  at  it, 
was  really  no  other  than  the  Duchess's  future  son-in- 
law. 

The  house  being  set  so  far  back  from  the  entrance  gates, 
to  which  Pam  was  now  nearly  opposite,  was  so  near  the 
wall  to  which  the  girl  clung  that  she  at  once  recognised  him, 
with  a  laugh  of  pleasure  and  a  conscious  lack  of  surprise. 

"  Oh,  I  do  hope  he  will  see  me!  " 

The  wall  was  a  little  sunken  here,  and  with  the  aid  of  a 
low  beech  branch  she  swung  herself  up,  and  sat  down  oppo- 
site the  window.  Peele  still  stood  at  it,  looking  at  his  glass. 
First  he  tasted  its  contents,  then  he  examined  it  again.  A 
cross-light  behind  him  threw  his  slight  figure  into  strong 
relief,  and  Pam  could  see  even  his  thoughtful  frown  as  he 
tasted  the  wine. 

"  Oh,  please  look  at  me ! "  she  said  aloud.  "  What  if  I 
waved  my  cap?  Or  I  suppose  I  really  am  too  old  to  do 
that!" 

Just  then  Peele  raised  his  eyes  and  saw  her.  She  sat 
perfectly  still,  staring  gravely  back  at  him  until  he  called 
out,  "  Are  you  a  ghost?  " 

"  I  am!     What  is  that  red  stuff  in  the  glass?  " 

"  That  red  stuff  is  wine.    Will  you  have  some  ?  " 

"  No,  thanks.  You  remind  me  of  Faust,  staring  so 
solemnly  at  it." 

He  laughed.  "  Well,  this  is  a  surprise,  to  find  you 
perched  like  a  monkey  on  my  garden  wall!  Though,"  he 
added,  leaning  out  towards  her,  "  it  is  not  the  first  time  I 
have  seen  you  perched  on  a  wall !  " 

"  May  I  come  in  and  see  your  garden  ?  " 

"  May  you !     Please  do.     I'll  come  out." 

He  disappeared,  and  a  moment  later  met  her  as  siw  crossed 
the  springy  lawn  to  a  freshly  gravelled  path. 


P  A  M  221 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,"  he  began  cordially.  "  Did 
you  walk  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  I've  been  prowling  along  your  wall  imag- 
ining the  family  who  live  here — and  it's  you !  " 

"  Oh,  you  didn't  know,  then  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him.  "  No — how  should  I  have  known  ? 
Did  you  think  I  came  on  purpose?  I  probably  would  have, 
however,"  she  added  carelessly,  "  if  I  had  known.  Oh, 
what  a  dear  old  porch !  " 

"  Yes,  it's  a  nice  little  house.  I  hadn't  been  near  it  for 

nearly  ten  years,  and  it's  rather  run  down,  but  now,  I '* 

He  hesitated. 

"  Having  it  swept  and  garnished  for  Lady  Henrietta, 
are  you?  When  is  the  wedding  to  be?  " 

"  Some  time  in  the  autumn ;  but  I  don't  imagine  Lady 
Henrietta  will  care  much  for  the  old  place." 

The  gardener,  who  was  working  in  the  front  of  the  house, 
looked  around  curiously  at  the  new-comer,  as  she  sat  down 
on  the  base  of  an  old  sun-dial  and  took  off  her  hat.  "  It 
is  warm  to-day,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  we  shall  have  an  early  summer." 

Peele  looked  worse  than  she  had  thought  in  the  train, 
and  she  saw  that  his  hair  had  grown  much  greyer  since  the 
winter,  and  that  there  were  deep  lines  in  his  clear,  colourless 
skin. 

"  You  had  better  take  a  good  long  rest,"  she  said  abruptly, 
after  a  pause. 

"I?    Why?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  mean  that  you  must  have  been  overworking  horribly 
to  look  like  that." 

"  You're  not  complimentary.     Do  I  look  badly?  " 

"  Dreadfully!  "  with  emphasis.     "  What  is  it,  heart?  " 

"What  a  little  wiseacre  you  are!  No;  I'm  not  ill,  but 
politics  is  a  hard  trade.  I've  come  here  for  the  rest  you 


222  P  A  M 

advise,"  he  went  on,  smiling  at  her,  "  and  am  taking  a  tonic 
Would  you  like  to  see  the  house  ?  " 

He  made  the  proposal  as  simply  as  he  would  have  done 
to  a  child  of  ten,  or  to  a  young  boy,  and  she  accepted  it  in 
the  same  spirit. 

Together  they  went  into  the  dark  old  hall,  which  was  not 
without  charm,  though  it  had  no  pretensions  to  splendour, 
and  into  the  library — the  room  where  he  had  been  when  he 
discovered  her. 

"  The  drawing-room  is  quite  dismantled ;  my  mother  died 
when  I  was  born,  and  no  one  has  lived  in  it  since;  this  was 
my  father's  room,  and  I  like  it,  too." 

It  was  a  low  room,  lined  with  books  and  furnished  with 
old-fashioned  comfort.  Papers  and  pamphlets  lay  about 
on  the  tables,  and  even  on  the  chairs. 

"  It  is  comfy;  only — is  this  the  way  you  rest?  "  she  asked, 
waving  her  hands  at  the  signs  of  mental  work. 

"  I  can't  idle,  and  to  knit  I  am  ashamed,"  he  answered. 
"  You  have  no  idea  what  a  pull  it  is  to  me,  to  have  to  come 
here  and — stagnate !  "  She  started  at  the  sudden  passion  in 
his  voice;  his  face  had  stiffened  into  the  cold  mask  it  had 
been  that  evening  when  she  had  first  seen  him,  and  she 
suddenly  felt  very  young,  and  very  insignificant,  as  she 
realised  the  political  importance  that  he  evidently  felt  him- 
self to  be  risking  by  this  enforced  retirement. 

"  Tired  people  can't  do  good  work,"  she  ventured  with  a 
slight  hesitation.  "  You  have  seen  a  doctor?  " 

"  Of  course  I  have!  "  he  cried  irritably.  "  Should  I  be  here 
unless  I  had  been  sent,  do  you  think?  " 

Then  he  went  on  emptying  a  chair  of  its  papers.  "  Do  sit 
down,  you  have  had  a  long  walk." 

She  obeyed,  sitting  quietly,  frowning  at  her  clasped  hands. 
She  had  come  in  to  see  the  house,  but  they  had  both  forgotten 
that.  He  was  again  fighting  against  the  despair  he  had  tried 


P  A  M  223 

to  forget,  and  she  was  thinking  what  she  could  say  to  influ- 
ence him  to  take  the  so  imperatively  needed  rest,  and  won- 
dering at  the  sudden  feeling  of  intimacy  with  him. 

"What  does  Lady  Henrietta  think  about  it  all?"  she 
asked,  at  length. 

"About  what?  My  health?  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  or 
rather  she  doesn't  know  that  there's  anything  wrong." 

Pam  stared.  "  You  mean  that  you  haven't  told  her  you 
are  ill?  For  you  are  ill,  and  I  must  have  been  blind  not  to 
see  it,  even  in  the  dark  carriage  the  other  evening." 

"No,  I  have  not  told  her!  What  good  would  it  do?" 
He  rose  and  walked  restlessly  about  the  narrow  room.  "  She 
couldn't  help  it,  could  she  ?  " 

"No.  But  she — oh,  I'd  hate  you  for  it  if  it  were  me! 
You  ought  to  tell  her." 

"  Nonsense.  Come,  I  was  going  to  show  you  the  pictures, 
wasn't  I?" 

She  rose,  frowning.  "Bother  the  pictures!  Look  here, 
Mr.  Peele,  why  don't  you  tell  her?  You  are  horribly  lonely, 
and  it's  frightful  to  be  lonely  when  one's  ill.  She  and  the 
Duchess  have  a  right  to  come  and  look  after  you." 

She  seemed  very  childish  in  her  vehemence,  and  his  dark 
face  softened  to  a  smile  as  he  watched  her.  "  My  dear  Miss 
Pam,  please  don't  scold  me.  I  am  tired  out,  that's  all,  and 
I  want  quiet  and  the  solitude  you  abhor.  That's  why  I 
ran  away  here  without  telling  any  one — not  even  Lady  Hen- 
rietta. Now,  come;  I  have  a  Reynolds  I  want  to  show 
you." 

She  followed  him  slowly  up  the  shallow,  uncarpeted  stairs, 
and  into  a  long  narrow  gallery  lined  with  pictures. 

Peele  opened  a  window,  letting  in  a  gush  of  sweet  air  and 
a  long  streak  of  sunlight. 

"Oh,  there  it  is!"  Pam  loved  pictures,  and  the  Rey- 
nolds was  a  charming  one  of  a  charming  woman,  but  her 


224  P  A  M 

brain  vras  too  busy  to  follow  her  eyes,  and  she  stood  in  front 
of  the  canvas  staring  vacantly  at  it. 

"Well!    You  like  it?" 

"  Yes,  very  much.     Oh,  dear!  " 

"What  is  it?  what  is  the  matter?"  he  asked,  in  some 
alarm,  for  her  face  was  full  of  acute  distress,  and  he  did  not 
connect  it  with  himself. 

"  Nothing.  Only  I  wish  you'd  tell  her!  Doesn't  she 
know  where  you  are  ?  " 

He  sighed  impatiently.  "  What  a  pertinacious  person  you 
are!  No.  As  you  insist  on  having  information,  I  will  tell 
you  that  Lady  Henrietta,  as  well  as  everyone  else  who  has 
any  interest  in  me,  believes  me  to  be  on  the  Continent." 

"  Oh,  I  see."  Her  voice  had  changed  from  a  tone  of  help- 
less anxiety  to  one  of  complete  comprehension. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  he  asked,  wondering. 

"  I  mean  that  I  understand.  You  wanted  a  complete 
change.  Well,  I  am  a  change,  so  I  hope  you  won't  mind 
my  coming  sometimes  to  look  you  up  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  profoundly  grateful,"  he  returned,  laughing. 
"  Will  you  stay  and  lunch  with  me  to-day?  " 

This,  however,  she  refused  to  do,  and  soon  after  took  her 
leave. 

Peele  walked  with  her  to  the  gateway  on  the  high-road, 
and  when  she  had  gone  stood  looking  after  her  as  she  sped 
along  in  the  sun.  She  had  interested  him  in  spite  of  her 
persistence;  or  rather,  she  had  for  a  time  kept  his  mind  from 
working  hopelessly  on  in  its  treadmill  of  thought,  and  thus 
had  rested  him. 

"  A  funny  little  creature,"  he  thought,  turning  back  under 
the  trees,  "  and  I  quite  forgot  to  ask  her  how  she  is  getting 
on  with  her  father's  wife!  " 


CHAPTER  VI 


"  VILLA  ARCADIE,  April  6. 

"MY  DEAR  PAM :  We  have  just  come  back  from  a  prowl 
in  Andalusia,  and  so  your  letter  reached  me  only  yesterday. 
My  dear  child,  I  hardly  know  what  to  say  to  you.  Un- 
doubtedly you  should  have  obeyed  your  grandfather,  and 
not  gone  to  Torpington;  but  then,  on  the  other  hand,  you 
were  in  a  position  to  judge  for  yourself,  for  all  the  facts  of 
the  case  were  known  to  you.  Neither  your  mother  nor  I 
feel  that  we  have  a  right  to  exact  obedience  from  you. 
Rightly  or  wrongly,  we  have  allowed  you  always  to  do  as 
you  think  best,  and  I  am  convinced,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
that  you  possess  a  greater  share  of  that  most  uncommon 
quality  called  common  sense  than  either  she  or  I.  You  are 
in  a  curious  position,  of  course;  but  Susan  Kennedy,  I  am 
sure,  is  still  the  excellent  woman  she  always  was,  and  your 
sojourn  with  her  cannot  hurt  you  in  any  real  sense.  That 
you  have  quarrelled  with  your  grandfather  is  a  great  pity, 
but  on  the  whole  I  feel  that  as  the  step  is  now  un  fait 
accompli,  there  remains  for  me  nothing  to  do,  beyond  assur- 
ing you  what  you  always  know,  that  when  Mrs.  Kennedy 
has  had  enough  of  you,  we  shall  be  delighted  to  see  you 
back  here.  The  garden  is  already  enchanting,  and  the  whole 
world  seems  full  of  the  smell  of  violets! 

"  Your  affectionate  father, 

"G.  S.:1 

"  P.  S. — I  enclose  a  cheque  for  some  clothes.  Your  mother, 

225 


226  P  AM 

who  sends  you  her  love,  sends  you  one  or  two  London  ad- 
dresses, and  bids  you  have  new  stays  made  before  you  look 
up  the  dressmakers." 

Pam  sat  on  the  end  of  Peele's  library  table  and  swung 
her  feet  while  he,  lying  on  a  couch  by  the  fire,  read  this 
letter.  It  was  raining  hard,  and  in  place  of  her  boots,  which 
were  drying  by  the  fire,  she  had  on  a  pair  of  his  slippers, 
and  as  she  studied  his  incredulous  face  she  amused  herself 
by  swinging  the  things  on  her  toes  and  catching  them  at  the 
last  moment. 

"  Well,  upon  my  word !  "  he  exclaimed  at  length,  folding 
it  and  handing  it  back  to  her,  "  that  is  certainly  the  most 
extraordinary  letter  I  ever  read  in  my  life.  The  man  must 
be  crazy!  "  he  added,  not  quite  under  his  breath. 

Pam  laughed. 

"  He  isn't,  though.  He  is  much  saner  than  you,  for  in- 
stance !  " 

"  Am  I  not  sane?  "  He  looked  up  at  her,  an  amused  light 
in  his  keen  eyes.  "  I  have  always  been  under  the  impression 
that  I  was  particularly  terre-a-terre  and  well  balanced !  " 

"  Terre-a-terre — well,  yes,  I  suppose  you  are  that,  but  well 
balanced?  Oh,  no,"  she  continued  gravely,  dropping  one 
of  the  slippers  and  getting  down  to  pick  it  up.  "  If  you 
were,  you  wouldn't  be  eating  your  heart  out  over  a  few  weeks 
of  enforced  rest." 

"  Eating  my  heart  out  ?  Yes,  that's  about  what  I  am 
doing.  It  would  be  useless  to  try  to  explain  to  you  what  it 
means  to  a  man  who  craves  for  exactly  one  thing  on  God's 
earth,  to  have  to  watch  that  one  thing  slip  out  of  his  hand 
because  he's  too  weak  physically  to  hold  it !  " 

Neither  of  them  noticed  the  strangeness  of  his  speaking 
to  her  in  this  way. 

"  Political  power.     Well,  when  you're  rested  you  will  go 


P  AM  227 

prancing  back  as  fresh  as  a  daisy,  find  the  others  all  knocked 
up,  and  sail  in  and  demolish  them!  " 

He  laughed.  "  What  a  mixture  of  metaphors,  my  dear 
Pam !  Imagine  a  daisy,  first  prancing,  and  then  sailing,  and 
then  demolishing !  " 

"  I  don't  care.     Anyhow,  it  made  you  laugh!  " 

"  You  are  a  kind  little  thing  to  care  whether  I  laugh  or 
cry!" 

She  sat  down  by  the  fire  and  propped  her  chin  in  her  hands. 
"  I  do  care ;  I  care  a  lot.  It  makes  me  ache  all  over  to  have 
you  be  so  mis'able." 

"  And  so  you  take  the  trouble  to  tramp  all  the  way  out 
here  almost  every  day  to  cheer  me  up.  I  see  through  you !  " 

There  was  a  short  pause,  after  which  she  began  thought- 
fully, "  I  wish  you  had  a  mother,  you  do  so  need  one!  " 

"  A  mother!  My  dear,  I've  never  had  one.  She  died  the 
day  I  was  born." 

"  I  know.  And  perhaps  that's  why  you  need  her  so  dread- 
fully. You  see,  if  you  had  had  her,  you  could  at  least  re- 
member. It  is  very  beautiful  to  have  happiness  to  remember." 

Her  small  face  looked  suddenly  old  and  tragic  as  she 
spoke.  Genius  may  be  said  to  be  the  gift  of  expressing  feel- 
ing— even  the  feelings  one  has  never  known  one's  self,  and 
to  a  certain  extent,  the  gift,  or  the  curse,  whichever  it  may 
be,  was  hers. 

"  I  hope  you  have  happiness  to  remember?  "  he  asked,  with 
a  thrill  of  pity  for  her  unknown  future.  She  was  so  utterly 
alone  on  the  big  water  of  youth,  with  her  poor  little  ballast 
of  philosophy. 

"  I  ?  Oh,  yes.  Only  you  see,  my  mother  is  different.  If 
I  could  make  one  for  you,  I'd  have  her " 

"  Go  on.  Tell  me  what  kind  of  a  mother  you'd  make  for 
me,"  urged  the  weary  man.  "  I'd  like  to  know." 

Pam  went  on,  her  quiet  voice  speaking  in  short  discon- 


228  P  A  M 

nected  sentences,  the  only  break  in  the  quiet  of  the  dusky 
room. 

"  Well,  she  should  be  like  most  women,  not  very  fond  of 
her  husband.  So  she'd  have  loved  you  the  most  always.  She 
would  be  patient  and  gentle.  And  she  would  take  care  of 
you,  and — fuss  a  little.  And  you'd  be  proud  to  tell  her  the 
good  things  you  do,  and  ashamed  of  the  bad  things.  But 
you'd  tell  her  the  bad  ones,  too,  because  she'd  love  you  so  that 
she'd  understand.  And  she  would  not  be  beautiful,  and  her 
hair  would  be  nice  and  grey,  and  thin  on  top,  under  a  little 
cap.  And  she'd  be  a  sewing  woman,  and  she'd  love  going 
to  church.  And  she'd  have  dear  kind  wrinkles,  like  Cazzy. 
And  she'd  never  be  in  a  hurry " 

"  When  did  you  know  her,  Pam?  "  he  asked  quietly,  open- 
in  his  eyes.  "  Because  if  she  lives,  I  must  have  her." 

"  I  never  knew  her ;  I  just  imagined  her."  To  his  sur- 
prise her  voice  shook,  and  she  bit  her  lip  fiercely. 

Peele  understood.  In  describing  his  need,  she  had  come 
to  feel  her  own.  The  curious  aloofness  of  the  letter  she  had 
let  him  read  came  back  to  his  mind  with  a  shock.  She  was 
as  lonely  as  he,  and  she  was  not  yet  eighteen ! 

"  I  wish  she  was  my  mother,  dear,  and  yours,  too,"  he  said 
kindly,  closing  his  hand  over  hers.  "  You  need  her  as  much 
as  I." 

For  several  seconds  she  battled  visibly  with  what  in  almost 
any  other  girl  of  her  age  would  have  been  a  flood  of  tears,  and 
then  she  conquered,  and  sat  quiet,  not  even  acknowledging 
the  drops  on  her  cheeks  by  wiping  them  away. 

"  I  wish  you  could  see  my  mother,"  she  said  then,  very 
steadily.  "  She  is  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the 
world." 

He,  the  reserved,  resented  her  thus  shutting  him  out.  "  I 
have  no  doubt  of  it,"  he  answered ;  "  and  she  sends  you  a  list 
of  dressmakers  in  your  father's  letter!  " 


P  A  M  229 

"  I  asked  her  for  the  list.  And  she  does  love  me  in  her 
way." 

"  Her  way  is  not  the  way  of  the  imaginary  mother  you 
made  for  me !  " 

"  No.  But — I  don't  care.  Only  once  in  a  while,  when — 
when  it  rains,  and  I'm  hungry "  She  burst  out  laugh- 
ing at  this  ingenious  invention,  as  he  sprang  up  and  gave  a 
hurried  jerk  to  the  old-fashioned  bell-rope  near  the  door. 

"  I  am  sorry !  You  must  be  starving,  and  it's  past  five ! 
Ah,  Pam,  my  imaginary  mother  would  not  have  forgotten 
tea!" 

Pam  nodded  gaily. 

"No,  bless  her!  Now  do  lie  down  again;  I  should  die 
of  fright  if  you  should  faint." 

"  How  do  you  know  I  fainted  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Johnson  told  me.  She  evidently  thinks  it  very 
elegant  of  you;  she  beamed  with  pride!  " 

"  It  may  be  elegant,"  he  returned  gloomily,  "  but  it's  un- 
common unpleasant  Bring  in  tea,  will  you,  Mrs.  Johnson, 
and  some  jam  or  something,  please.  Miss  Yeoland  is 
starving." 

A  moment  later  he  said  suddenly:  "To  go  back  to  the 
letter ;  how  long  are  you  going  to  stay  on  in  Torpington  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  She  likes  me,  poor  thing.  I've  been 
reading  aloud  to  her  the  last  two  or  three  days;  I'm  reading 
her  '  Molly  Bawn,'  and  she  loves  it.  Grandfather  has  not 
written  to  me.  I  suppose  in  a  little  while  I  shall  just  pack 
up  and  go  back  to  Arcadia." 

"  To  Arcadia?    Do  you  come  from  there,  young  madam  ?  " 

They  looked  gravely  at  each  other.  "  Yes,  I  was  Born 
there.  My  father  and  mother  live  there,  but  I — I  don't 
really  belong,  you  see." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  mean  Chat  I  just  chanced  to  stray  in,  so  to  speak,  and 


230  P  A  M 

to  have  right,  one  has  to — to  force  the  barriers — to  win  one's 
way  in." 

The  thoughtful  little  speech  was  so  utterly  at  variance  with 
her  childlike  appearance  as  she  sat  huddled  close  to  the  fire 
that  he  started.  From  time  to  time  she  said  something  that 
reminded  him  that  she  was  on  the  brink  of  womanhood,  but 
as  a  rule  she  seemed  the  child  she  looked. 

"  How  does  one  win  one's  way  in,  Pam?  "  he  asked,  after 
a  pause.  "  I  should  like  to  go." 

She  shook  her  head  slowly.     "  No,  you  can  never  go." 

"  I?     Why  not?     What  have  I  done?  " 

She  hesitated.  "  I  am  talking  nonsense ;  hunger  is  doing 
its  dire  work."  But  she  had  meant  something,  and  he 
knew  it. 

"  Look  here,  this  is  the  third  time  you  have  done  that !  I 
mean,  refused  to  go  on  with  something  you  had  begun  to  say! 
It  is  absurd !  " 

He  sat  up  and  faced  her,  the  little  intent  frown  she  alway- 
associated  with  her  first  sight  of  him  on  his  black  brows. 

"  Why  can't  I  go  to  Arcadia?  " 

Mrs.  Johnson,  entering  laden  with  a  generously  provided 
tea-tray,  interrupted  him,  but  when  she  had  gone,  and  Pam 
was  peering,  with  that  supernatural  air  of  wisdom  common 
to  some  women  at  such  moments,  into  the  teapot,  he  returned 
to  the  charge.  "  Well,  why  can't  I  ?  " 

"  Why  can't  you  what  ?  "  she  returned  provokingly. 

"  Why  can't  I  go  to  Arcadia?  " 

She  evaded  him  for  a  few  moments,  parrying  his  patiently 
repeated  question  with  quick-witted  thrusts  of  irrelevancy, 
but  at  last,  when  he  had  put  it  to  her  too  many  times,  "  Why 
can't  I  go  to  Arcadia?  "  she  burst  forth,  setting  her  cup 
down  with  a  little  crash,  "  Because  you  are  going  to  marry  a 
woman  you  don't  love." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  looking  at  her,  the  frown 


P  A  M  231 

deepening.  "  How  do  you  know  I  don't — love  Henrietta 
Shanklin  ?  "  he  asked  at  length. 

"  Because,  as  I  told  you,  I  have  lived  my  childhood  in 
Arcadia,  and  I  have  seen  love  all  my  life." 

After  another  pause  he  said  quietly,  "  I  am  very  fond  of 
her,  Pam." 

"  I  know !  Oh,  I  am  sure  you  are.  She  is  so  beautiful, 
and  so — so — dear!  Of  course  you  are  fond  of  her." 

"  But  that  won't  take  me  to  Arcadia?  " 

Love  had  had  very  little  place  in  his  cool  brain;  he  was 
perfectly  satisfied  with  his  proposed  marriage,  and  senti- 
mental considerations  had  never  preoccupied  him.  Yet  he 
felt  a  trifle  hurt  at  being  thus  shut  out. 

"  No,  not  to  father's  and  mother's  Arcadia,"  she 
answered. 


CHAPTER  VII 


JAMES  PEELE'S  sudden  departure,  ostensibly  for  the 
Continent,  had  caused  not  a  little  talk  among  political 
people,  for  with  the  curious  shame  sometimes  felt  by  healthy 
men  of  a  sudden  illness  which  cannot  be  tabulated  by  some 
distinct  name,  such  as  typhoid,  or  pneumonia,  he  had  given 
no  explanation  to  anyone. 

"  I  am  off  to  France  on  business,"  he  had  told  his  political 
chief.  Possibly,  for  he  was  not  a  fool,  the  true  explanation 
might  in  this  one  case  have  been  made,  had  not  something  in 
that  great  personage's  eyes  betrayed  the  understanding  which 
tact  forbade  his  putting  into  words.  "  Indeed,  Peele.  I 
shall  miss  you,"  was  all  he  had  said.  "  But  I've  no  doubt 
your  going  is  necessary.  Take  care  of  yourself." 

Then  the  two,  the  man  arrived  and  the  man  bent  in  the 
teeth  of  ten  thousand  bristling  difficulties  on  arriving,  had 
shaken  hands  and  separated. 

Peele,  shut  up  in  his  lonely  old  house,  eating  his  heart 
out,  as  Pam  had  put  it,  followed  the  directions  of  his  doctor 
with  dull  accuracy,  and  counteracted  their  effects  by  reading 
every  day  in  a  dozen  different  papers  an  account  of  the  crisis 
which  had  come  just  when  he  could  play  no  part  in  it. 

The  doctor  had  told  him  the  whole  truth  about  his  con- 
dition. His  heart  was  weak,  and  he  was  on  the  verge  of  an 
absolute  nervous  breakdown  which  could  be  avoided  only  in 
one  way. 

And  unwillingly,  rebellioasly,  he  had  taken  that  way,  hav- 

232 


P  A  M  233 

ing  in  it  none  of  the  faith  which  is  in  itself  quite  the  third  of 
such  cures  as  his  doctor  was  trying  to  accomplish. 

"  I  shall  go  off  in  a  fainting  fit  some  day,"  he  thought ; 
"  and  if  I  don't  I  shall  become  a  chronic  invalid,  which  is 
worse." 

And  in  the  meantime  the  Liberals  were  going  out,  and 
as  his  party,  which  he  knew  he  had  served  not  only  faith- 
fully but  brilliantly,  came  in,  the  plum  that  should  have  been 
his  would  pop  into  another  mouth.  Ambition  was  the  only 
thing  the  man  had  in  the  world,  and  as  he  paced  the  gardens 
of  his  prison  by  day,  and  the  long  narrow  room  in  which  he 
lived  at  night,  he  was  to  be  pitied. 

The  Lady  Henrietta,  she  who  was  to  keep  him  out  of 
Arcadia,  and  who  believed  him  to  be  in  Cannes  or  Mentone, 
wrote  him  regularly  through  his  bankers,  and  once  in  a  while 
he  wrote  her. 

Hers  was  not  intellectually  a  richly  endowed  nature,  but 
she  was  gentle  and  kind,  and  she  loved  him. 

She  loved  him,  and  though  he  had,  as  much  from  a  fear  of 
having  to  live  up  to  a  once-stated  pose  as  from  a  sense  of 
honour,  made  no  pretence  of  loving  her,  he  was  man  enough 
to  be,  somewhere  in  the  rarely  stirred  depths  of  his  soul, 
ashamed  of  himself  for  having  asked  to  marry  him  a  woman 
whose  letters  awoke  in  him  nothing  more  than  a  feeling  of 
bored  pity. 

He  recognised  the  hardness  of  his  own  nature;  the  cold- 
ness of  what  books  had  taught  him  to  call  his  heart,  and  he 
wondered  quite  honestly  what  it  was  in  him  that  had  called 
forth  from  the  spoiled  beauty  of  many  seasons  the  love  which 
had  awakened  in  him  the  idea  of  using  her  as  a  help  in  his 
career. 

The  man  felt  in  himself  that  quiet  strength,  that  absolute 
reliance  in  tried  powers,  which  under  certain  favourable  cir- 
cumstances can  take  one  to  any  heights,  and  those  circum- 


234  P  A  M 

stances  would  to  a  great  extent  become  his  on  his  marriage 
with  the  sister  of  the  Duke  of  Wight. 

The  duke  himself,  a  youth  on  marrying  whom  all  the 
ladies  of  the  London  variety  theatres  seemed  strangely  bent, 
was  as  of  little  importance  in  any  way  as  a  careful  course  of 
senseless  dissipation  could  render  him,  but  at  the  same  time 
to  be  an  English  duke  is  to  be  a  power,  and  a  nephewship 
by  marriage  with  the  man  almost  bound  to  be  the  next  Prime 
Minister  is  an  advantage  for  which  an  ambitious,  compara- 
tively obscure  man  may  well  give  a  long  price. 

The  Lady  Henrietta,  moreover,  with  her  beauty  and  her 
large  fortune,  would  have  been  a  great  help  even  without  her 
title  and  position,  and  the  fact  that  she  was,  at  thirty,  still 
considered  one  of  the  greatest  beauties  in  England  had  its 
place  in  the  lists  of  advantages  Peele  had  won  so  easily  that 
day  in  the  old  Refectory  at  Monks'  Yeoland.  The  man 
knew  he  was  wonderfully  lucky,  and,  as  he  was  a  man,  it  was 
pleasant  to  him  that  his  wife  was  not  to  be  a  bony  frump  or 
a  fat  Jewess.  He  was  very  content,  but  at  the  same  time,  as 
the  days  went  on,  as  the  political  field  became  more  animated 
and  the  inevitable  battle  drew  near,  he  would  have  given  up 
his  fiancee  with  all  her  accruements  for  a  fortnight  of  the 
health  to  which  he  had,  in  all  the  thirty  odd  years  that  had 
been  his,  not  thrown  the  tribute  of  a  grateful  thought. 

For  he  was  a  born  fighter.  The  excitement  of  animated 
debate  thrilled  him  to  his  finger-tips,  and  his  nervous  mind 
was  never  clearer  than  when  the  smoke  of  wordy  battle  filled 
the  air. 

He  was  poor,  but  for  the  joy  of  having  his  own  eloquent 
words  rush  over  and  burn  the  great  man  whose  unguarded 
phrase  had  laid  him  open  to  Peele's  attack,  he  had  cheerfully 
paid  the  heavy  fine  that  had  been  imposed  on  him.  And  now, 
when  he  was  filled  to  the  lips  with  wisdom,  as  he  thought,  and 
of  knowledge,  as  he  knew,  on  the  question  that  was  dividing 


P  A  M  235 

England  that  spring  into  two  great  camps,  here  he  was  down 
in  the  country,  nursing  a  weak  heart  and  resting  an  over- 
worked nervous  system ! 

Pam,  with  her  wits  and  ready  sympathy,  was  the  only 
gleam  of  sun  in  his  dreary  outlook. 

Taking  her  visits  to  him  as  much  for  granted  as  those  she 
had  made  to  Christopher  Cazalet,  enjoying  her  long  talks 
with  him,  making  him  laugh,  making  him  think  of  something 
beside  his  lamed  existence,  she  was  the  greatest  possible  boon 
to  him.  So  old  in  some  ways,  her  slight  figure,  not  quite  long 
skirts,  and  the  boyish  sailor  hat  she  usually  wore,  made  her 
seem  to  him  a  child,  as  he,  with  his  pre-occupation,  the 
speeches  she  had  read  aloud  to  her  grandfather,  the  fact  of 
his  engagement  to  the  ancient  Lady  Henrietta,  and  his  rap- 
idly whitening  hair,  was  to  her  old. 

Once  on  his  remarking  incidentally  in  the  course  of  a 
conversation  that  he  was  five-and-thirty,  she  had  exclaimed 
bluntly,  "Are  you  really  no  older  than  that?  Why,  I 
thought  you  years  older  than  Charnley  Burke,  and  he  is 
forty-three! " 

"  Did  you  indeed?  That  is  a  blow!  And  who  is  Charn- 
ley Burke?  Not  the  man  who  has  bought  the  Rosedale 
ruby?" 

"  Ruby?  Has  he  bought  one?  Oh!  "  The  colour  rushed 
to  her  face  at  the  thought,  for  there  was  only  one  person  for 
whom  Burke  would  buy  a  ruby,  and  she  knew  it.  "  He's 
an  Australian,  and  a  friend  of  ours.  What  is  the  Rosedale 
ruby?" 

Peele  laughed.  "  Make  him  show  it  to  you ;  it's  worth 
seeing.  Belonged  to  poor  little  Lady  Rosedale,  and  they 
sold  it  after  her  death,  to  pay  her  debts.  They  say  this  man 
Burke  gave  fifteen  thousand  pounds  for  it." 

Pam  was  silent.  It  was  a  pity  that  she  could  not  fall  in 
love  with  Burke,  he  was  so  nice,  and  so  big,  and  so  strong, 


236  P  A  M 

and  so  good-tempered,  and — so  rich.  With  a  sigh,  she  dis- 
missed the  subject  from  her  thoughts  as  a  regrettable  but  ab- 
solutely unchangeable  fact. 

Two  or  three  days  after  the  talk  about  Arcadia,  feeling  a 
little  better  and  unutterably  bored,  Peele  decided,  as  Pam  did 
not  come  to  him,  to  drive  into  town  and  look  her  up. 

A  long  letter  from  the  Lady  Henrietta,  reproaching  him 
tenderly  for  not  being  in  England  just  when  he  could  be  so 
useful  and  derive  so  much  benefit,  as  well,  from  the  break- 
ing up  of  the  Liberal  party,  had  irritated  him  unspeakably, 
and  a  political  blunder  had  been  made  that  almost  brought 
tears  of  anger  to  his  eyes. 

Pam  would  cheer  him  up. 

When  he  reached  the  commonplace  little  house  in  Wel- 
lington Terrace  he  found  the  curtains  drawn  and  lights 
behind  them,  though  it  was  as  yet  broad  daylight. 

Maud,  the  maid,  in  a  rather  fetching  cap  and  apron,  in- 
formed him,  with  something  of  a  giggle,  that  Miss  Yeoland 
was  in  the  drawing-room,  and  led  the  way  to  that  triumph 
of  local  upholstery,  whence  a  sound  of  mild  revelry  came 
through  the  door. 

"  Mr.  Peele." 

There  was  a  sudden  hush,  and  eighteen  women  and  one 
man  turned  and  paid  the  very  much  annoyed  newcomer  the 
tribute  of  a  silent  stare.  "  Oh,  it's  you !  I  am  glad  to  see 
you."  Pam  came  up,  her  hand  held  out,  her  eyes  dancing. 
"  We're  having  a  party,  you  see — a  most  delightful  party. 
Come  and  let  me  introduce  you  to  Cousin  Susie." 

Conversation  had  begun  again,  but  the  eighteen  ladies 
drew  back  with  eager  politeness  to  make  way  for  the  distin- 
guished guest,  and  at  the  end  of  the  vista  he  found  himself 
bowing  before  the  hostess  who,  pinker  and  whiter  than  ever, 
in  a  cap  comprised  of  tiny  velvet  roses,  and  a  flowing  gar- 
ment of  pink  silk  covered  with  lace,  gave  him  a  most  cordial 


P  A  M  237 

welcome.  "  Delighted  to  see  you,  Mr.  Peele,  I'm  sure.  It 
gives  me  great  pleasure.  Allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  my 
dear  friend,  Miss  Botson,  whose  book  on  fern-culture  you 
must  have  read." 

Miss  Botson's  hand  was  moist,  her  teeth  were  equine ;  he 
did  not  like  her.  Neither  did  he  like  Mrs.  White,  a  very 
tall  person  with  a  large  crumb  of  cake  on  her  unfashionably 
high,  purple-mohair  bosom. 

"  Thanks ;  I  should  like  a  cup  of  tea,  Pam,"  he  said,  catch- 
ing at  a  chance  of  a  withdrawal  from  his  immediate  sur- 
roundings. 

"  My  tea-table  is  in  the  corner  there ;  come  along." 

He  followed  her  with  an  absent-minded  expression  very 
creditable  in  a  man  on  whom  eighteen  pairs  of  eyes  are  ten- 
derly glued. 

"  What  the  deuce  are  they  all  staring  at  me  so  for?  "  he 
asked  nervously,  sinking  into  a  chair  after  jerking  it  around 
so  that  his  back  was  to  the  room.  "  I  never  was  so  uncom- 
fortable in  my  life !  " 

"  Never  mind — it  is  complimentary,  you  know.  Aren't 
they  wonderful?  They've  all  been  here  for  over  an  hour, 
and  they're  going  to  stay  to  supper!  " 

"  To  supper?     Good  Lord !  " 

"  Yes.  I  ache  with  laughing  inside ;  they  are  too  funny. 
Every  single  one  of  them  has  asked  for  my  '  grandfather,  Lord 
Yeoland's '  health.  I've  had  such  fun,  done  all  my  tricks, 
recited,  showed  them  Caliban,  told  them  about  the  Duchess 
— you  know!  They  are  having  the  time  of  their  lives." 

"  It's  awful !"  he  groaned.  "  More  cream,  please.  I  say, 
Pam,  why  haven't  you  been  to  see  me?  " 

"  No  time.  I've  been  busy.  It  takes  time  to  stone  enough 
raisins  for  a  party,  I  tell  you !  " 

'  They  aren't  going  to  have  raisins  for  supper,  are  they?  " 

"  They  are — in  cakes  and  in  puddings.     Then  I've  done 


238  F  A  M 

almonds,  and  counted  silver.  It's  really  fun,  you  know, 
you  needn't  look  so  disgusted !  " 

"I  was  horribly  ill  yesterday,"  he  said  pathetically;  "if 
you  desert  me,  I  shall  cut  my  throat.  Aha !  another  man !  " 
he  broke  off,  adding  with  malicious  satisfaction,  "  Now,  he'll 
catch  it!  " 

"  Not  he.  That's  Mr.  Nickerson,  the  dentist.  They  have 
all  had  the  privilege  of  gazing  at  him  by  the  hour  while  he 
does  things  to  their  teeth;  he  isn't  a  stranger.  Oh,  Mr. 
Nickerson,  how  do  you  do  ?  Let  me  give  you  a  cup  of  tea !  " 

Peele  yielded  up  his  place  to  the  mild-mannered  dentist, 
and  wandered  back  to  Mrs.  Kennedy.  He  could  not  leave 
until  he  had  had  another  talk  with  Pam,  whom  he  saw,  to 
his  rather  indignant  surprise,  was  really  enjoying  herself. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  Mrs.  Kennedy  began  hospitably,  "  that 
you  happened  to  drop  in  to-day,  when  I  had  these  few  friends 
to  meet  Pamela.  I  suppose  you  are  an  old  friend  ?  " 

"  Hardly  that,  but  a  good  one,  I  hope." 

"  Met  'er  at  'is  lordship's,  I  daresay  ?  " 

Her  h's  had  been  irreproachable  the  first  part  of  the  after- 
noon, but  she  was  tired. 

"  Yes,  I  was  visiting  in  the  neighbourhood." 

Miss  Botson,  who  was  sitting  by  her  friend,  at  this  point 
leaned  forward  and  said  with  an  air  of  mystery,  "  Of  course 
you  know  the  story?  " 

Peele  stared.     "  What  story  ?  " 

"  Oh,  hush  now,  Anna!  "  put  in  Mrs.  Kennedy.  "  Mr. 
Peele  can't  be  expected  to  take  an  interest " 

"  He  can  be  expected  to.  Any  one  with  a  heart  in  his 
bosom  must  take  an  interest  in  it.  I  was  referring,"  the 
gaunt  woman  went  on,  "  to  the  story  of  my  dear  friend's 
misfortune." 

Peele  rose.  He  knew  from  Pam  that  this  phrase  referred 
to  her  father's  forcible  escape  from  the  bonds  which  seemed 


P  A  M  239 

to  him  at  that  moment  to  have  been  quite  unbearable,  but  he 
did  not  care  to  have  the  story  repeated  to  him  by  the  narrow 
tongue  clicking  against  the  horrible  yellow  teeth  of  the  confi- 
dential friend.  "  I  am  sorry,"  he  said  hastily,  "  I  must  go 
on  now.  Charmed  to  have  had  the  pleasure." 

After  a  hurried  word  with  Pam,  who  was,  as  he  put  it  to 
himself,  with  unreasonable  disgust,  making  herself  agreeable 
to  the  dentist,  he  escaped. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


APRIL  passed,  and  May.  Pam  had  enjoyed  the  reality 
of  primroses  and  violets  almost  as  much  as  she  had  enjoyed 
them  in  imagination.  She  and  Pilgrim  had  spent  a  week 
in  London,  at  a  small  hotel  in  Albemarle  Street,  and  occu- 
pied themselves,  while  her  simple  clothes  were  being  made, 
with  a  course  of  picture-galleries  and  long  walks,  possibly 
less  amusing  to  the  sourly  patient  servant  than  to  her 
mistress. 

Then,  somewhat  to  Pam's  surprise,  they  had  come  back  to 
Torpington,  and  stayed  on  there. 

The  amusement  inspired  in  her  by  Mrs.  Kennedy's  friends 
had  given  way  to  a  mild  resignation  to  their  pretentious  dul- 
ness;  Miss  Botson,  who  came  constantly,  was  as  obnoxious 
as  ever,  and  Pam  still  felt  quite  a  superfluous  member  of  the 
little  household ;  yet  she  stayed  on. 

"  Are  we  going  to  live  here  for  the  rest  of  our  days  ?  " 
Pilgrim  asked  her  once  peevishly.  "  I  can't  see  that  we're 
doing  anyone  any  good,  I'm  sure!  " 

"  Nonsense,  Pilly.  She  likes  to  have  us,  and  I  do  read 
aloud  to  her.  Besides,  I'm  not  so  proud  as  you ;  I  like  it." 

Pilgrim  sniffed.  "  And  your  father  and  mother  in  Paris, 
having  a  lovely  time!  " 

"  I  never  liked  Paris,  you  know.  Now,  for  Heaven's 
sake,  don't  sulk — think  what  a  bad  example  you're  setting 
Cally." 

Pam  asked  herself  again,  when  the  good  woman  had  left 
the  room,  why  she  did  stay  on  in  Torpington,  and  then  de- 

240 


P  A  M  241 

tided  suddenly  that  it  must  be  Peele's  presence  that  made 
her  reluctant  to  leave." 

"  I  certainly  couldn't  stand  it  if  he  were  not  here,"  she 
decided  frankly.  "  He  is  a  dear!  " 

Peele  grew  better  as  time  wore  on ;  he  slept  more  and  his 
fainting  fits  had  ceased.  Every  two  or  three  days  the  girl 
tramped  over  the  now  familiar  road  to  his  house,  and  during 
the  long  hours  which  they  spent,  free  from  interruption,  in 
the  charming  old  park,  or  in  the  library,  a  curious  intimacy 
had  grown  up  between  them. 

"  The  night  I  first  saw  you,"  she  told  him  once,  "  you 
stood  leaning  against  the  wall,  listening  to  Lady  Henrietta's 
playing,  and  I  was  opposite  you,  just  beyond  (he  portieres. 
I  had  read  all  your  speeches,  you  know,  and  heard  all  about 
the  row  in  the  House,  and  I  was  crazy  to  see  you." 

"Well,  did  I  come  up  to  your  expectations?"  he  asked, 
puffing  at  his  pipe  as  he  lay  on  his  back  on  the  warm  grass. 

"  Yes.  You  did,  then.  You  looked  so  stern,  and  so 
strong,  and  so  cold." 

"  Dear  me !  Why  the  invidious  emphasis  on  the  '  then  '  ? 
Do  I  disappoint  you  now?  " 

She  looked  at  him  thoughtfully.  "  No-o.  But  you  see, 
a  man  who  is  ill  is  more  or  less  a  child,  and  makes  a  girl 
feel  old  and  motherly." 

"  In  other  words,  familiarity  breeds  contempt !  " 

"  No,  it  doesn't.     It  kills  awe,  though." 

"  Did  I  use  to  inspire  awe?  " 

"  Yes,  in  me,  at  least.  And  now — I'm  just  very  fond  of 
you." 

Peele  stretched  out  his  hand  and  stroked  hers  affection- 
ately. "Good  little  Pam!" 

No  letter  had  come  from  Lord  Yeoland,  but  Evelyn  had 
written,  and  Cazalet.  These  letters  she  read  aloud  to  Peele, 
who  in  turn  read  her  bits  from  the  Lady  Henrietta's  and 


242  P  A  M 

those  from  various  political  friends,  and  the  discussion  arising 
from  them  all  helped  to  draw  closer  together  the  strangely 
assorted  friends. 

Evelyn's  wails  over  her  grandfather's  cruelty  regarding 
her  curate  led  to  a  conversation  that  was  not  without  its 
consequences. 

"  He's  a  sweetly  pretty  youth,"  Pam  informed  her  friend, 
"  with  a  cupid's-bow  mouth  and  pink  gums ;  he  is  fond  of  her, 
I  suppose,  but  he's  afraid  to  go  to  my  grandfather  and  put 
that  obstinate  old  man  into  his  proper  place.  So,  as  Evy 
shakes  in  her  shoes  at  grandfather's  very  voice,  they  both  of 
them  mourn  in  respectful  obedience,  and  old  Time  is  still 
a-flying!" 

Then  she  told  the  story  of  her  attempt  to  stir  the  mild 
curate  to  rebellion.  "  I  told  him  that  if  it  was  me,"  she 
added,  with  her  habitual  disregard  for  grammatical  pedantry, 
"  I'd  run  away  with  him  like  a  shot." 

"Would  you  really  have  been  so  bold?"  Peele  asked, 
laughing. 

"  Wouldn't  I  ?  I  don't  mean  with  a  curate  like  him,  but — 
if  I  happened  to  be  in  love  with  any  one,  and  some  one  inter- 
fered." 

"  Your  grandfather  has  a  certain  right  to  directing  your 
destinies — yours  and  Miss  Maxse's." 

"  Rubbish !  Haven't  we  both  our  own  father  and  mother  ? 
My  grandfather  is  simply  an  old  tyrant — yes,  he  is  an  old 
tyrant!  Look  at  him  now,  sulking  with  me  because  I 
wouldn't  obey  him.  I've  written  him  three  times,  charming, 
chatty  letters,  and  I  shan't  budge  to  go  to  him  until  he 
has  written  me  three  times." 

"  He  may  never  write." 

She  laughed.  "  Oh,  yes,  he  will.  Poor  dear  Aunt  Rosa- 
mund and  Evy  do  bore  him  so  that  he  almost  dies;  he's 
longing  for  me  by  this  time.  I  know  him." 


P  A  M  243 

"  And  if  he  forbade  you  marrying  some  chap  you  wanted 
to,  you'd  defy  him  too?  " 

She  shook  her  head  slowly.  "  No,"  she  answered  with 
the  air  of  one  about  to  make  a  weighty  announcement,  "  not 
exactly.  I  don't  believe  in  marriage." 

"  By  Jove!  Not  believe  in  marriage?  May  I  ask  why 
not?" 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  moment,  and  he  went  on.  "  You 
believe  in  love,  I  know,  for  I  remember  a  wigging  you  gave 
me  about  Arcadia." 

"  Yes.  I  do  believe  in  love — of  course  I  do.  If  you 
knew  my  father  and  mother,  Mr.  Peele,  you  would  not  have 
had  to  ask  me  that." 

"  Well,  then,  why  not  in  marriage?  " 

"  Because  marriage  seems  to  me  to  be  so  hampered  and 
narrowed  by  a  thousand  humdrum  cares  and  superstitions; 
because  married  people  squabble,  or  get  over  being  in  love; 
because  the  very  fact  that  one  has  sworn  to  keep  on  feeling 
a  certain  way  is  bound  to  make  one  change.  Imagine  vow- 
ing in  church  to  hate  and  loathe  your  bitterest  enemy  all  the 
rest  of  your  life,  and  then  trying  to  do  it!  It  stands  to  reason 
that  you'd  begin  to  like  him  before  you  had  got  out  of  the 
church-door!  " 

Peele  was  silent  for  a  few  seconds.  Her  words  expressed 
his  own  feelings  with  a  clearness  he  had  never  dared  to  use, 
and  his  thoughts  had  flown  as  the  crow  flies  to  the  Lady 
Henrietta  and  his  own  future. 

"  I  think,"  the  girl  went  on,  her  hands,  full  of  flowers, 
clasping  her  knees,  her  eyes  half  closed  with  intentness,  "  that 
people  who  love  each  other  need  no  promises." 

"You  are  not  the  first,  my  dear,  to  advance  that  theory, 
but  it  won't  hold  water.  Laws  have  to  exist,  you  see.  If 
there  were  no  marriage  there  could  be  no  social  order.  The 
minute  two  people  got  tired  of  each  other,  off  they'd  go,  each 


244  P  AM 

would  have  his  or  her  own  way,  and — the  children  in  the 
nursery,  what  would  become  of  them  ?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  people  do  about  that  when  they 
are  married.  If  Lady  Lloyd-Venn  hadn't  been  chained  down 
to  Sir  Dick  she  would  never  for  a  moment  have  dreamed 
of  falling  in  love  with  that  nasty  Captain  Bentinck!  Every 
one  knows  that  a  bird  in  the  bush  is  worth  a  dozen  in  the 
hand!" 

Peele  burst  out  laughing.  ' ' '  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes ! ' 
But  what  about  the  one  of  the  pair  who  might  happen  to 
be  satisfied  with  his  bargain  ?  " 

"  Like  poor  Mrs.  Kennedy.  Well,  she  is  perfectly  happy 
now;  much  happier  than  if  mother  had  not  had  the  courage 
to  just  go  off  with  father.  Think  how  wretched  Mrs. 
Kennedy  would  have  been  if  he  had  stayed  with  her  by  force, 
and  loathed  her  as  he  would  have,  after  knowing  mother." 

Peele  had  not  thought  of  this  case,  and  felt  a  slight  dis- 
comfort as  she  enlarged  on  it.  "  Your  father's  and  mother's 
tase  is  most  exceptional,"  he  said,  rising.  "  It  is  the  only 
one  of  which  I  have  ever  heard  that  has  not  turned  out  badly 
for  every  one  concerned." 

"  Well,  if  I  ever  fall  in  love  with  any  one,  you'll  hear  of 
another  case,  for  I'm  never  going  to  make  any  idiotic 
promises." 

"  You  must  feel  yourself  to  be  singularly  inconstant, 
then!" 

"  I'm  not,"  she  flashed  back  angrily.  "  But  how  can  I 
tell  how  I'll  feel  in  ten  years?  Just  wait,  M>.  Peele,  you 
and  I.  You  are  goi»g  to  make  a  splendid  marriage  de  con- 
venanet,  and  I  shall  never  marry  at  all.  Let's  see  which  of 
is  turns  out  the  happiest." 

"  And  if,"  he  hesitated,  "  you  should  have  children  ? 
Don't  you  see?  "  It  seemed  to  him  unutterably  pathetic  the 
Way,  as  he  put  his  question,  she  opened  her  eyes  in  surprise. 


P  AM  245 

"  Well,  didn't  they — father  and  mother — have  me?  " 
The  only  letters  Pam  did  not  show  to  her  friend    were 
two  which  had  come  from  Burke. 

His  big,  strong,  coarse  writing  was  so  like  himself  that 
the  girl  seemed  to  see  him,  as  she  read  the  short  sentences  be 
had  poured  on  to  the  paper  hot  from  his  heart. 

"  If  you  knew  how  I  miss  you !  The  spring  air  gets  into 
my  throat  and  seems  to  choke  me  because  you  are  not  here. 
Let  me  come  to  you,  Pam !  Marry  me,  and  let  me  take  you 
off  somewhere — anywhere  you  want  to  go.  Cazalet  is 
sending  this  to  you,  but  he  refuses  to  give  me  your  address. 
It  is  cruel.  I  love  you,  and  I  have  a  right  to  know  where 
you  are.  I  go  often  to  see  your  grandfather,  but  I  don't 
care  to  ask  him  where  you  are.  He  is  very  well,  but  very 
lonely.  We  talk  about  you,  for  he  loves  you,  too.  He  told 
me  yesterday  that  he  had  hoped  to  marry  you  to  some  man 
of  good  blood,  that  the  Duchess  would  have  helped,  but  that 
now  you  have  ruined  your  prospects  by  this  insane  folly. 
Thank  God  for  it!  You  weren't  made  to  be  a  fine  lady, 
the  wife  of  some  little  fashionable  whippersnapper.  You 
have  too  many  red  corpuscles,  my  girl.  Love  me!  I'll  teach 
you  what  life  is  and  can  be.  Can't  you  love  me?  Oh,  Pam! 
doesn't  it  mean  anything  to  you  to  make  a  man  like  me  grow 
giddy  with  the  very  thought  of  you?  '' 

The  rest  of  the  letter,  and  part  of  the  one  which  came 
later,  was  in  the  same  strain.  She  read  them  with  a  curious 
feeling  that  they  were  not  meant  for  her.  Her  own  coldness 
debarred  her  from  all  right  to  them.  Poor  Charnley  Burke! 
— he  was  not  "  the  man  "  of  whom  Ravaglia  had  told  her. 

The  second  letter,  received  early  in  June  together  with 
the  second  she  had  had  from  her  mother  since  she  had  left 
home,  announced  that  the  writer  had  been  cabled  for  from 


246  P  AM 

Australia.  "  I  must  go,"  he  wrote  in  a  hand  somewhat  un- 
steady, "  and  God  knows  when  I  can  get  back.  Something 
has  gone  wrong  with  my  bank.  Oh,  little  Pam,  little  girl, 
I  am  so  utterly  your  slave!  Be  kind  to  me  and  let  me  see 
you." 

After  a  little  reflection  she  wrote  him  a  line  giving  him 
her  address,  and  putting  on  her  hat,  posted  her  note. 

Then  as  was  her  habit,  she  went  back  past  the  house  and 
out  on  to  the  road  leading  to  Peele's. 

"  It  was  very  nice  of  him,"  she  thought,  as  she  flew  along 
in  her  peculiarly  light-footed  way  over  the  dusty  road, 
"  never  to  try  to  eblouir  me  with  the  ruby !  Of  course  he 
bought  it  for  me,  poor  thing!  It  is  funny  that  he  should 
care  so  much,  because  I'm  really  little  more  than  a  child. 
Eighteen  in  November,  and  this  is  June  3 !  "  She  had 
several  things  to  tell  Peele,  and  hurried  along,  wondering 
what  he  would  say  to  one  of  them — that  she  was  going  to 
join  her  parents  in  Normandy  in  a  fortnight's  time. 

The  letter  from  her  mother  lay  in  her  pocket,  and  every 
now  and  then  she  touched  it,  her  face  flushing  with  happiness 
as  she  did  so.  Her  mother  wanted  her!  Had  herself 
written  to  say  so.  "  I  am  not  very  well,"  the  beautiful 
woman  had  said.  "  Not  ill,  dear,  don't  be  alarmed ;  but  the 
heat  has  been  great,  and  I  feel  languid  and  good-for-nothing. 
When  are  you  coming?  We  miss  you,  and  I  think  I  should 
feel  better  if  you  were  here  to  bully  me  a  little." 

Peele  could  no  longer  look  at  her,  as  he  sometimes  did,  with 
that  annoying  cloud  of  pity  in  his  clever  iyes.  Her  mother 
wanted — needed  her,  and  she  was  going  home! 

Peele  was  lying  on  a  wicker  lounge  under  a  tree  when  she 
came  into  the  garden,  and  as  she  drew  near  she  saw  that 
he  was  asleep. 

Sitting  quietly  down  on  the  grass  she  studied  his  uncon- 
scious face.  It  was  browner  than  it  had  been,  and  the 


P  A  M  247 

cheeks  were  fuller.  His  eyes,  too,  had  lost  the  bluish  circles 
that  had  so  troubled  her.  "He  is  almost  well,"  she  thought 
contentedly,  "  and  will  soon  be  able  to  work  again.  How 
glad  he'll  be!" 

It  was  very  quiet  in  the  old  garden ;  the  warm  afternoon 
sun  brooded  over  the  fragrant  earth  like  a  great  golden  bird ; 
the  trees  did  not  stir,  and  their  shadows  looked  like  tangible 
things.  Pam  took  off  her  hat  and  brushed  back  the  little 
damp  tendrils  from  her  low  brow.  It  was  delightful  to  go 
back  to  her  mother — to  her  mother  who  wanted  her — but  she 
would  miss  Peele,  who  had  been  almost  a  charge  to  her.  She 
had  bullied  him  about  his  drops,  had  fussed  about  his  food, 
and  bought  him  a  pair  of  hideous  overshoes  which  she  insisted 
on  his  wearing  when  it  was  damp,  for  he  never  wore  heavy 
boots  as  most  men  do  in  the  country.  Her  feeling,  as  she 
watched  him  lying  in  the  touching  helplessness  of  sleep,  had 
in  it  something  distinctly  maternal.  She  could  hardly  realise 
that  he  was  the  same  man  who  had  made  those  splendid, 
tempestuous  speeches  of  which  the  papers  had  had  so  much 
to  say.  It  was  not  the  brilliant  politician  who  lay  sleeping 
in  the  shade  by  her;  it  was  a  being  who  was  a  little  her  child, 
a  little  her  old  hero,  and  a  great  deal  the  friend  she  loved. 

Suddenly,  perhaps  disturbed  by  her  magnetic  gaze,  he 
opened  his  eyes. 

"Where  is  it?"  he  murmured,  still  half  asleep;  "show 
me  the  ruby  if  it's  true !  " 

Then  he  burst  out  laughing  and  rose  hurriedly.  "  Good 
girl,  how  are  you?  I  am  glad!  I  was  just  having  the 
most  abominable  dream  about  you  and  that  chap  Burke  who 
bought  the  ruby!  " 

"The  ruby?"  It  was  so  curious,  the  coincidence,  that 
she  started. 

"  Yes.  I  dreamed  the  fellow  had  picked  you  up  and  was 
winning  off  with  you  as  if  you  had  been  a  baby ;  and  on  one  of 


248  P  AM 

your  hands,  which  was  hanging  limply  over  his  shoulder, 
shone  the  ruby,  set  in  a  ring.  It  was  a  brute  of  a  dream, 
though  it  doesn't  sound  particularly  terrifying  in  the  telling." 

"  And  you,"  she  asked,  looking  curiously  at  him,  "  what 
were  you  doing  while  I  was  being  dragged  off? — poor  me!  " 

"  I — that  was  the  worst  of  it — I  seemed  to  be  simply  look- 
ing on.  Not  a  noble  role,  was  it  ?  Well,  what's  the  news  ?  " 
he  went  on,  laughing  off  his  slight  discomfort.  "  How  is  your 
esteemed  relative  ?  " 

"  Cousin  Susie?  She  is  not  so  well  to-day — nothing,  you 
know ;  she  has  her  ups  and  downs.  But  my  news  is  that  I'm 
off  home  the  end  of  the  week." 

"  Home !     Where  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  What  could  I  mean  but  to  my  father  and  mother?  My 
mother  wants  me." 

"  Oh,  I  say,  Pam,  this  is  awful !  What  am  I  to  <do  with- 
out you  ?  " 

His  injured  expression  amused  her,  but  she  was  greatly 
flattered  at  the  same  time.  "  Oh,  you  are  nearly  well ;  you'll 
be  off  yourself  before  long." 

"  Yes,  that's  true.  The  Duchess  has  found  me  out,  too. 
Luckily,  she  thinks  I  have  just  come  hert  from  the  Con- 
tinent. I've  got  to  go  down  to  Wakeborough  on  the  23d, 
— but  that's  a  long  way  off.  Must  you  go  so  soon  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  must.  It  is  dear  of  you  to  care,  but  mother 
needs  me."  She  tried  to  keep  the  pride  out  of  her  voice,  and 
failed. 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  will  patch  matters  up  with  Lord  Yeo- 
land,  for  I  should  hate  to  think  I'd  never  see  you  again." 

"  Oh,  we'll  meet  again,  no  fear,  Mr.  Peele.  Do  you  re- 
member that  time  I  said  we  were  bound  to  meet  again,  but 
that  we'd  not  like  each  other?  Isn't  it  funny?  I  never 
liked  any  one  quite  as  much  as  I  do  you." 

"  I'm  very  fond  of  you,  Pam,"  he  returned,  his  usually 


P  A  M  249 

cold  voice  warm.  "  You  are  a  dear  little  soul."  After  a 
minute  he  added :  "  Look  here,  you  have  queer  ideas,  and 
your  circumstances  are  unusual.  Will  you  promise  me 
never  to  do  anything  mad — run  away  with  some  fellow,  or 
anything  of  that  sort — without  telling  me  first?  I  couldn't 
prevent  it,  of  course;  we  all  dig  our  own  graves  in  our  own 
way;  but  I'd  like  you  to  promise.  Will  you?  " 

She  held  out  her  hand.  "  Yes,  I  will,"  she  answered 
slowly,  "  and  will  you — now  don't  be  angry,  there's  a  dear 
— promise  me  to — to  think  well  before  you  marry  Lady 
Henrietta?" 

His  face  stiffened  and  he  dropped  her  hand.  "You  are 
absurd." 

"  No,  I'm  not.  Once  Madame  Ravaglia  told  me  never 
to  forget  that  somewhere  in  the  world  there  was — the  man 
I  am  going — to  love.  I  suppose  it's  the  same  with  every 
one.  There  must  be  somewhere  the  woman  you  are  going  to 
love.  Why  don't  you,"  she  added,  with  a  sudden  change  to 
whimsicality,  "  give  her  a  chance?  " 

He  burst  out  laughing.  "  How  I  shall  miss  you,  you 
monkey!  Come,  let's  have  tea;  I  suppose  you'll  not  be 
coming  again." 


CHAPTER  IX 


\VHEN  Pam  came  in  that  evening  she  was  met  by  Pil- 
grim, who,  with  a  face  full  of  indignant  mystery,  followed 
her  up  to  her  room  and  closed  the  door. 

"  Now  I  hope  you'll  believe  that  this  is  no  place  for  you, 
Miss  Pam!  Now  I  hope  you'll  understand  that  a  lady  is  a 
lady,  and  a  person  a  person.  Never  in  my  life  'ave  I  been 
in  a  house " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Pilgrim !  Give  me  my  slippers,  and 
tell  me  what  the  matter  is  without  roaring  at  me  like  a 
hyena." 

"  I'm  not  roaring,  and  I'm  not  an  'yena.  The  matter  is 
that  she's  been  drinking" 

Pilgrim,  kneeling  in  front  of  her  mistress,  the  slippers  in 
her  hand,  looked  anything  but  humble  as  she  made  this  state- 
ment 

"  Pooh!  is  that  all?    Which  one?    Maud?  " 

Pilgrim  set  down  the  slippers  and  folded  her  arms  dra- 
matically. "Mrs.  Kennedy/" 

"  Mrs. Nonsense,  Pilly,  you  must  have  been  drinking 

yourself.  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  Mrs.  Kennedy  is  hintoxicated.  You  may 
go  and  see  for  yourself !  " 

"  But — why,  it  is  impossible !  " 

"  You  may  see  for  yourself." 

"  I  will  see  for  myself*  if  you  will  be  good  enough  to  put 
on  my  slippers.  But,  of  course(  you  are  entirely  mistaken." 

"  Which  it  is  I've  begun  to  pack  your  things,  Miss  Pam." 

250 


P  A  M  251 

The  faithful  creature  rose,  and  Pam,  with  a  hurried  pat 
at  her  hair,  went  downstairs. 

As  she  opened  Mrs.  Kennedy's  door  her  heart  sank.  The 
room  certainly  smelt  of  spirits.  "  May  I  come  in  ?  "  she 
asked  coldly.  There  was  no  lamp,  but  even  in  the  dark 
she  could  see  that  her  hostess  was  huddled  queerly  in  her 
chair. 

"Is  that  you?" 

Susan  Kennedy  could  hardly  articulate,  and  as  Pam  ad- 
vanced some  one  rose  from  a  chair  near  her.  It  was  Miss 
Botson. 

"Oh,  Pamela,  she  is  ill!" 

"  So  I  see,  Miss  Botson.  I  am  going  to  ring  for  a 
lamp." 

"  Don't  let  Maud  come  in,"  went  on  the  indistinct  voice. 
Pam  shuddered. 

"  I  have  given  her  brandy,  but  it  hasn't  done  any  good." 
Anna  Botson  wrung  her  hands  as  she  spoke. 

"  Evidently  not.     Maud,  bring  a  lamp,  will  you?  " 

The  girl  retreated,  and  when  she  came  back  with  the 
lighted  lamp  Miss  Botson  took  it  and,  closing  the  door,  set 
it  down  on  the  table. 

"  Do  you  think  she  looks  badly  ?  "  she  whispered  to  Pam, 
who  stood,  very  erect,  staring  at  the  dull  eyes  and  flushed 
face  opposite  her.  "  There,  she's  dropping  off  to  sleep  again ! 
I  wanted  to  go,  or  send  for  Dr.  Terry,  but  she  wouldn't  let 
me  leave  the  room." 

"  Hardly  necessary  to  send  for  a  doctor,  I  should  think. 
I — I  think  I  will  leave  to-night.  I  have  had  a  letter  from 
my  mother,  who  needs  me.  You  will  be  kind  enough  to 
explain  to — Mrs.  Kennedy,  when  she  is — better " 

Her  disgust  and  anger  almost  choked  her ;  she  hardly  knew 
her  own  voice.  Miss  Botson  stared.  "  You  wouldn't  go 
now,  when  she's  ill!  I  know  she's  going  to  be  ill." 


252  P  A  M 

Pam  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  She's  asleep  now;  and 
please  don't  lie  to  me.  It  really  isn't  worth  while." 

The  older  woman's  face  flushed  a  dull  brownish  red. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean ;  I  am  not  lying ;  what  have 
I  said  ?  And  why  do  you  look  like  that  ?  " 

Her  persistence  exhausted  Pam's  small  store  of  patience. 

"  I  look  like  that,"  the  girl  said  indignantly,  "  because  I 
happen  never  to  have  seen  a  drunken  woman  before." 

"  Oh !  "  Anna  Botson  started  back  as  if  she  had  been 
struck. 

"  Aren't  you  ashamed  ?  How  can  you  say  such  a  thing 
of  her.  She  has  been  kind  to  you.  Only  to-day  she  has 
been  making " 

Pam  looked  closely  at  the  speaker. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  at  length,  after  a  pause  filled  in  by 
the  loud  snores  of  the  sleeping  woman,  "  perhaps  I  am  mis- 
taken, and  you  really  didn't  know.  If  that  is  so  I  beg  your 
pardon." 

"  You  thought  I  knew — what  ?  That  she  is — but  she 
isn't!  She  is  ill,  I  tell  you.  Look  at  her." 

Turning,  she  pointed  to  the  curiously  dark  face,  the  only 
half-closed  eyes,  and  Pam  caught  at  her  hand. 

"  Oh,  you  know?     You  have  been  with  her  long?  " 

"  I  came  just  after  you  left.  She  said  she  wasn't  well, 
but  she  had  some  business  to  do  with  her  lawyer.  He  came, 
and  I  witnessed  a  paper  for  her.  Then  we  had  tea,  and  she 
kept  falling  asleep.  I — am  afraid " 

"  It's  apoplexy,"  announced  Pam  shortly.  "  I'll  send 
Maud  for  a  doctor." 

Before  the  doctor  came,  however,  Mrs.  Kennedy  had 
roused  herself  from  her  heavy  sleep,  and  slowly,  with  a  stiff 
tongue,  asked  what  time  it  was. 

"  Seven ;  five  minutes  past,  dear,"  returned  Pam,  in  an 
agony  of  remorse  for  her  cruel  suspicion. 


P  A  M  253 

"Is  Anna  there?" 

"  Yes,  Susie;  yes,  my  dearest  Susie." 

"  Glad.  Very  ill.  Fancy,  I  can  hardly  speak.  Doctor 
coming  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear  cousin  Susie.  He  will  give  you  something  to 
make  you  better,"  returned  Pam,  stroking  the  great  fat  hand 
gently.  "  He  will  come  soon  and  cure  you." 

"  No.     Dying.     It's  paral — ysis." 

Anna  Botson  burst  into  tears,  and  kneeling  put  her  arms 
about  her  friend. 

Pam  could  not  speak.  "  Don't  cry,  Anna,"  went  on  the 
sick  woman  laboriously,  "  what  time  is  it?  " 

All  night  she  asked  at  intervals  what  the  time  was,  harp- 
ing on  the  trivial  detail  with  a  persistency  that  almost  mad- 
dened Pam,  who,  as  well  as  Miss  Botson,  sat  up  with  her. 

Pam  never  forgot  that  night. 

It  was  very  warm,  and  through  the  open  window  came 
a  strong  scent  of  lilies ;  the  lamp  on  the  floor  behind  the  head 
of  the  bed  cast  a  distinct  light  on  the  gay  carpet,  leaving  the 
rest  of  the  room  almost  in  darkness. 

On  the  table  by  the  bed  stood  water,  two  medicine  bottles, 
two  spoons,  and  the  clock.  Mrs.  Kennedy  did  not  move. 
Flat  on  her  back  she  lay  motionless,  the  bed-clothes  drawn 
taut  over  the  unwieldly  bulk,  an  ice-bag  on  her  head. 

"  What  time  is  it?  "  It  seemed  to  the  watchers  that  each 
time  she  asked  the  question  the  words  came  with  more  diffi- 
culty. 

At  dawn  Pam  woke  out  of  a  sound  sleep  on  the  sofa  to 
find  Anna  Botson  shaking  her  gently. 

"  She  wants  you,  Pamela.    Wake  up." 

The  girl  rubbed  her  eyes  and  stumbled  to  the  bed,  sick 
with  sleep. 

"  Pamela — listen — can't  talk  much — listen " 

Pam  leaned  over,  and  in  the  faint  daylight  saw  that  the 


254  P  A  M 

right  side  of  the  great  face  on  the  pillow  was  fallen  and  stiff. 
"Yes,  I  hear,  dear  Cousin  Susie,"  she  said  distinctly,  con- 
trolling herself  with  effort.  "  I  hear  quite  well.  Go  on." 

Mrs.  Kennedy  raised  her  left  hand  and  took  the  girl's  in 
her  own,  fingering  it  restlessly  as  she  spoke. 

"  Pamela — I'm  sorry  about  the — di — di — vorce.  I  should 
have  divorced  him.  Understand  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  I'll  tell  them,  but  don't  you  bother  about 
that.  They  never  cared,  you  know.  They  are  happy." 
She  hardly  knew  what  she  was  saying. 

"  Sorry  I  didn't  di — vorce  him — sin — marriage — late 
now." 

Pam  could  catch  only  a  few  words,  but  she  nodded  again. 
"  Yes,  yes,  I  understand.  I'll  tell  them." 

"Promise?" 

"  What  shall  I  promise  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  do !  Of  course  I 
promise." 

The  sick  woman  frowned  despairingly.  "  Pamela — I  am 
dying.  Marry  now.  George  and — her." 

"Oh!  You  want  them  to  marry  now  ?  Oh,  I  see.  Yes, 
yes,  Cousin  Susie.  Don't  talk  any  more ;  it  tires  you  so." 

"  Promise.     Marry  now.     Sin — my  fault." 

Then  the  girl  understood,  and  taking  the  sick  woman's 
hand  firmly  in  hers  made  surely  the  most  extraordinary 
promise  made  by  a  girl  of  eighteen  since  the  world  began. 

"  I  promise,  Cousin  Susie,  dear.  I  promise  to  make  father 
and  mother  marry  as  soon  as  I  get  back  to  them." 

And  Susan  Kennedy,  her  conscience  contented,  fell  asleep. 

She  died  the  next  evening,  without  having  fully  recovered 
consciousness,  but  it  seemed  to  Pam  that  she  liked  having 
her  sit  by  the  bed,  and  the  girl  never  left  the  room  until 
Hannah,  the  cook,  led  her  away,  murmuring  something  about 
its  being  no  longer  any  use. 

Pam  slept  without  moving  until  ten  o'clock  the  morning 


P  A  M  255 

after,  and  when  she  went  downstairs  found  Anna  Botson, 
repulsive  and  hideous,  even  in  her  grief,  filling  the  pink  room 
with  white  and  pink  roses.  "  She  always  used  to  say  that 
pink  was  her  colour,"  she  said,  as  the  young  girl  entered 
quietly,  "  and  it  was.  You  may  have  thought  her  too  fat, 
but  that  was  only  since  she  was  so  ill.  She  was  perfectly 
beautiful  when  she  was  a  girl;  much  handsomer  than  some 
fine  ladies  I've  'card  of!  " 

Pam  stared.  "You  mean  my  mother?  I  didn't  know 
you  had  known  Mrs.  Kennedy  so  long." 

"  Well,  I  have,  and  what's  more,"  she  came  slowly  towards 
the  bed  and  looked  at  the  two  women,  the  dead  and  the  living 
one,  neither  of  whom  had  ever  suspected  what  she  was  about 
to  say — "  I  knew  your  father  before  she  did.  Did  you  think 
she,  Susie,  thought  of  having  you  come?  She  didn't  even 
know  there  was  any  you.  It  was  all  me.  I  'card,  and  I 
wanted  to  see  you.  I  wanted  to  see  you,  because  I  love 
George  Kennedy.  That's  why.  And  I  wrote  the  letter. 
Did  you  think  she  could  have  written  it  ?  " 

Pam  stared  at  her.  Was  it  possible  that  this  ugly  woman, 
with  her  great  pale  mouth  and  her  grotesque  figure,  had 
loved  her  father? 

"  Surprised,  are  you?  Well,  when  you  go  back  and  tell 
him  all  about  it,  tell  him  that  Anna  Botson  did  it.  'E'll 
remember  me." 

"  You  say  you  loved  him  ?  "  stammered  Pam.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  all  women  in  the  world  had  loved  him. 

Miss  Botson  selected  an  exquisite  pink  rose  and  laid  it 
tenderly  in  the  cold  hand  on  the  bed. 

"  No.  I  said  I  love  'im.  /  don't  chop  and  change.  He'll 
tell  you  about  it.  It  used  to  amuse  him.  I  always  looked 
like  a — a  crocodile." 

After  a  moment  she  added :  "  She  was  godmother  to  one 
of  the  curate's  daughters,  and  would  'ave  left  the  money  to 


256  P  A  M 

her  if  I  'adn't  had  you  come.  Tell  George — your  father — 
that,  please." 

"  But,  I  don't " 

Miss  Botson  turned,  her  swollen  eyes  glassy  in  the  sun- 
light. "  She's  left  you  ten  thousand  pounds.  Tell  Georget 
please."  Then  kneeling  by  the  dead  woman,  she  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands.  She  was  praying. 


CHAPTER  X 


"PlLLY,  would  it  be  very  dreadful  if  I  went  for  a 
walk?  It  is  four  days  since  I've  been  out,  and  I'm  almost 
dead!" 

Pam  came  into  Pilgrim's  room  under  the  eaves,  a  forlorn 
little  figure  in  a  somewhat  scant  black  skirt  and  jacket,  which 
she  had  outgrown  the  year  before,  and  a  white  shirt. 

Pilgrim,  busy  putting  a  black  ribbon  in  place  of  the  red  one 
on  her  mistress's  sailor-hat,  looked  up. 

"Oh,  Pam — Miss  Pam.  We  were  so  unjust  to  her! 
And  now  to  go  out?  The  funeral  is  to-morrow,  can't  you 
wait?" 

"  No  one  would  see  me;  I'd  go  out  the  back  door  and 
creep  away  to  the  country — there  isn't  a  book  in  the  house, 
and  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  have  to  sit  staring  at  Cally  any 
longer." 

"  Very  well ;  it  is  hard  for  you,  and  'er  being  no  relation 
at  all  to  you,  when  all's  said  and  done.  If  you  wait  an  hour 
longer  it  will  be  six  o'clock  and  no  one  will  see  you;  it's  a 
dark  day.  Drop  the  scissors,  you  little  brute !  "  she  added 
sharply  to  the  monkey,  who  had  seized  the  opportunity'  of 
making  some  experiments  on  the  end  of  his  tail  with  the 
usually  jealously  guarded  instrument. 

Pam  sat  down  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  taking  her 
retrimmed  hat  went  downstairs. 

"  Is  Miss  Botson  still  here?  "  she  asked  the  maid. 

"  Yes,  Miss,  Miss  Botson  is  in  the  drawing-room." 

Pam  had  not  seen  the  strange  woman  alone  since  she  had 

257 


258  P  A  M 

been  told  of  the  legacy.  Anna  had  shown  much  skill  in 
avoiding  her,  and  on  the  occasions  when  meeting  was  inevita- 
ble had  managed  to  keep  Maud  or  the  cook  in  the  room  with 
them.  Pam  had  not  tried  to  force  the  meeting  the  other 
avoided,  for  she  did  not  know  at  first  what  it  was  that  she 
wished  to  say.  She  had  pondered  a  great  deal,  however,  on 
the  story  told  her  among  the  roses  in  the  death-chamber,  and 
at  last  had  come  to  a  conclusion. 

Finding  Miss  Botson  in  the  drawing-room,  then,  she  closed 
the  door,  and  went  swiftly  to  the  window  in  which  the  gaunt 
figure,  in  its  uncouth  garb  of  woe,  was  standing. 

"  Miss  Botson,"  she  began  at  once,  holding  out  her  hand, 
"  you  have  not  wanted  me  to  speak  to  you,  but  I  must.  I 
go  away  on  Monday,  and  this  is  Saturday.  To-morrow — 
there  will  be  no  time." 

"  I  thought  you  were  asleep." 

"  Well,  I'm  not.  Now,  listen  to  me.  I  have  been  think- 
ing of  what  you  told  me  the  other  day.  It  was  you  who 
made  me  come  here ;  you  did  it  under  false  pretences,  making 
me  quarrel  with  my  grandfather  and  the  Duchess  of  Wight 
about  it,  all  because  you  wanted  to  see  me.  You  used  Mrs. 
Kennedy  as  a — a  means  to  that  end.  Naturally,  I  object  to 
having  been  fooled,  and  it  wasn't  fair  to  her  either." 

"  I  know  it  wasn't.  But  there  was  no  other  way.  And 
then  there's  the  money — you'd  never  have  had  that  if  I 
hadn't  done  it." 

"  Yes,  the  money.  You  seem  to  have  had  a  great  influ- 
ence over  her." 

Miss  Botson's  swollen  eyes  gleamed.  "  I  did.  She  loved 
me.  '  Anna,'  she's  said  a  thousand  times, '  you  are  my  dearest 
friend.'  It  was  me  looked  after  her  when  George  went  off 
and  left  'er;  it  was  me  nursed  her  through  the  illness  after 
her  first  stroke;  she  was  in  bed  a  whole  year.  It  was  me 
looked  after  the  money  matters,  she  was  as  'elpless  as  a  child 


P  AM  259 

in  such  things.  And  if  I  did  make  use  of  her  it  only  made 
her  happier.  She  liked  seeing  you  as  much  as  I  did.  And 
didn't  she  enjoy  hearing  all  about  him  every  bit  as  much  as 
me?" 

Pam  was  silent.  Mrs.  Kennedy  had  indeed  asked  number- 
less questions  about  her  husband,  and  listened  to  the  answers 
with  the  interest  of  a  child.  It  came  back  to  the  girl  now 
how,  always  silent,  her  chair  drawn  into  the  shadow,  the 
dearest  friend  had  listened  too. 

"  It  was  this  way.  When  she  came  here  about  a  year  after 
her  misfortune  (an  aunt  left  her  this  house) ,  I  came,  too,  and 
took  the  lodgings  where  I  still  live.  She  wanted  me  to  live 
in  the  'ouse;  but  I  wouldn't  do  that ;  I  like  my  liberty  too  well. 
She  was  a  great  favourite,  of  course,  and  then  every  one  knew 
the  story  and  wanted  to  see  'er.  No  one  thought  of  my  mis- 
fortune," she  added  with  sudden  bitterness. 

"  Then  it  didn't  spoil  her  disposition  as  it  did  mine.  Did 
I  tell  you  that  he  laughed  at  me  ?  And  she  wasn't  really  un- 
happy for  very  long.  Sometimes  she  really  enjoyed  her 
troubles.  It  always  gave  her  pleasure  to  tell  about  them, 
and  of  course  every  one  sympathised  with  her." 

Pam  bit  her  lips  impatiently.  "  Please  don't  go  on ;  I  don't 
like  to  hea  about  it." 

"  I've  aboui:  done.  I  shan't  bother  you  with  my  part. 
I  lived  on  and  never  for  one  minute  forgot  the  ache  of  think- 
ing about  him.  She  didn't  know.  Then  I  heard  that  he 
had  a  child,  and  that  she  was  in  England.  That  was  years 
ago.  I  went  down  to  Monks'  Yeoland,  third-class,  and  saw 
a  young  girl  riding  a  pony.  I  thought  she  was  you,  but  she 
wasn't.  Ever  since  then  I've  wanted  to  see  you  again — to 
know  you,  to  touch  you.  So  when  you  came  back  this  time, 
and  I  heard  it.  1  told  her,  and — I'm  not  ashamed. — made  her 
think  she  uanted  to  see  you.  She  did,  too,  once  I'd  put  the 
idea  into  her  head.  That's  all.  I'm  glad  I  did  it." 


260  PAM 

She  was  so  unlovely  in  her  grim  sorrow  that  Pam  felt  a 
pang  of  pity  for  her. 

"  Well,  I  wish  you  had  not  done  it,  except  that  it  may 
have  given  her  some  pleasure,  but  I'm  sorry  for  you,  Miss 
Botson.  And  you  mustn't  mind  my  not  taking  the  money." 

"  Not  taking  the  money?  Not  taking "  The  woman 

nearly  screamed  in  her  excitement. 

"  No.  You  had  no  right  to  make  her  leave  it  to  me,  away 
from  her  god-child.  You  must  see  that  I  can't  touch  it !  " 

"  Listen,  Pamela,  you  mustn't  do  that !  It's  the  only  thing 
I've  ever  been  able  to  do  for  him,  and  you  must  let  me 
do  it." 

"  It  is  quite  impossible.  Don't  you  see  that — we — couldn't 
allow  ourselves  to  be  benefited  by  her  money?  She  was  not 
50  clever  as  you,  but  I'm  sure  she  would  have  understood 
that." 

"  She  did,  at  first,"  confessed  the  power  behind  that  humble 
throne.  "  I  wanted  her  to  leave  it  to  him,  and  she  said  no, 
that  he  would  not  accept  it.  That  was  years  before — before 
I  knew  you  were  born." 

"There!     You  see!" 

"  But  it's  different  with  you.     You  never  injured  Susie." 

Pam  drew  a  long  breath.  "  I  am  sorry,  and — I  suppose  I 
ought  to  thank  you  for  it — but  I  will  not  touch  one  penny 
of  the  money." 

"  You'll  have  to.  At  least,  you  will  have  to  dispose  of 
it,  even  if  you  give  it  all  away!  "  was  the  answer  in  a  strange 
tone  of  exultation.  "  And,  though  this  is  all  the  thanks  I  get, 
I  shall  have  benefited  him  through  the  thanks  you  get! 
That  is  all  I  want." 

She  stood  staring  over  Pam's  head,  hei  'oose,  pale  lips 
hanging  apart  in  a  hideous  smile  of  crookedi>  arrived  at, 
but  beautiful,  sentiment. 

Pam  caught  her  hand  suddenly.     "  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry,  so 


P  A  M  261 

dreadfully  sorry !  "  she  cried,  "  and  I  shall  tell  him,  and  he 
will  be  sorry,  too." 

Then  she  rushed  from  the  room,  through  the  kitchen, 
across  the  little  garden,  and  out  into  the  street.  It  was  a 
dark  afternoon,  the  low  clouds  a  metallic  grey,  the  air  heavy 
and  hot.  "  I  wish  it  would  rain,"  the  girl  thought,  as  she 
struck  out  on  the  country  road,  her  feet  sending  clouds  of 
yellow  dust  about  her.  "  My  head  feels  as  if  it  were  going 
to  burst.  Poor  old  thing!  Poor  Miss  Botson.  And  how 
repulsive  she  is.  God  should  not  give  such  women  any  heart 
at  all." 

She  went  on  slowly,  now  that  she  had  walked  off  her 
excitement,  her  hat  in  her  hand,  her  head  thrown  back  to 
meet  the  little  air  there  seemed  to  be.  It  did  not  occur  to 
her  that  she  should  not  go  to  see  Peele.  No  one  would 
know  in  the  house  of  mourning  in  which  she  did  not  really 
belong,  and  she  longed  for  a  talk  with  him. 

It  was  half -past  six  when  she  reached  his  house,  and,  going 
in  without  a  ring,  knocked  at  the  library  door. 

"  It's  I,  Pam,  may  I " 

"Come   in!" 

He  was  lying  down,  a  wet  cloth  on  his  forehead.  "  Ex- 
cuse my  not  getting  up,  I've  a  brute  of  a  headache.  I  am 
glad  to  see  you — thought  you  had  gone." 

"No.  Haven't  you  heard?  Mrs.  Kennedy  is  dead. 
The  funeral  is  to-morrow.  I  go  Monday." 

"Dead.     Good  heavens,  what  killed  her?" 

She  sat  down,  and  leaning  wearily  back  in  her  chair,  gave 
him  a  brief  history  of  the  events  of  the  week. 

"  But — you  poor  little  thing,  how  dreadful  for  you!  I'm 
so  sorry." 

"  It  has  been  pretty  bad.  I  was  so  dreadfully  sorry  for 
her.  At  first " — she  hesitated — "  I  thought  she  had  been 
drinking.  It  makes  me  so  ashamed!  And  then  poor  Miss 


262  P  A  M 

Botson,  whom  I  can't  bear — I  mean,  I  couldn't — is  so 
pathetic." 

"  The  woman  with  the  teeth?  " 

"  Yes.  And  Cally — my  monkey,  you  know — did  such 
a  fearful  thing.  The  cook  was  sitting  in  the  room  one  day, 
yesterday,  and  suddenly  Mrs.  Kennedy's  hand  moved.  Came 
right  up  in  the  air.  Hannah  screamed,  and  Pilgrim  came 
rushing  in,  and  there,  if  you  please,  was  Caliban  in  the 
coffin,  curled  up  under  her  poor  dead  arm.  It  seemed  so — 
disrespectful." 

"  Very.  Monkeys  are  not  distinguished  for  great  def- 
erence, are  they?  Poor  old  Pam!  " 

He  looked  pale,  she  saw,  and  frowned  with  pain  as  he 
spoke.  "  One  of  your  very  worst  headaches,  isn't  it?  " 

"Yes.  You  see,  you  weren't  here  to  take  care  of  me, 
and  I  got  into  mischief.  Took  a  long  walk  this  morning, 
and  then  after  luncheon  I  over-tired  myself  looking  out 
a  lot  of  old  arms  in  the  garret.  I'm  going  to  have  some 
of  them  cleaned  and  got  into  shape;  a  few  of  them  are 
very  good." 

"Oh,  over  there  on  the  table.     May  I  look?" 

She  crossed  the  room  and  stood  for  a  few  minutes  turn- 
ing over  the  quaint  old  swords  and  rapiers  with  cautious 
hands. 

"  This  inlaid  one  is  beautiful,  and,  oh,  how  sharp!  " 

"Yes,  it's  Venetian.  Be  careful.  Isn't  the  sheath 
there?" 

She  came  back  to  her  chair,  the  long  slim  rapier  in  her 
hand.  "  I'm  going  to  take  fencing  lessons  some  day,"  she 
observed  carelessly,  making  a  few  neat  strokes  as  she  spoke. 
"  I  am  not  bad  at  it,  my  wrist  is  flexible ;  look  at  that !  " 

"  Good !  Don't  run  me  through,  though.  Hello- 
thunder! " 

"  Yes,  there  is  going  to  be  a  storm,  a'iel " 


P  A  M  263 

Laying  the  rapier  on  the  chimney-piece  she  ran  to  the 
window.  "The  sky  is  as  black  as  pitch — oh!" 

A  vivid  flash  of  lightning,  followed  by  a  loud  clap  of 
thunder,  sent  her  back  to  her  chair. 

"I'm  glad  it's  going  to  rain,  but — I  hope  it  won't  be 
a  very  bad  storm." 

"  Not  afraid,  are  you?  " 

"Yes,  I  am.  I  can't  help  it — oh!"  Another  zig-zag 
of  angry  brilliance  cut  across  the  sky,  followed  by  such 
a  crash  of  unearthly  noise  that  the  girl  gave  a  little  cry 
and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  Don't  be  a  goose,  dear ;  think  how  cool  it  will  be  for 
you  to  walk  home!  " 

"  I — oh,  Mr.  Peele,  I — I  wish  it  was  over." 

But  it  was  not.  It  was,  indeed,  to  be  one  of  those  de- 
structive storms  which  come  only  once  in  several  years. 
No  rain  fell  as  yet,  and  the  darkening  room  was  lit  at  close 
intervals  by  terrifying  lightning  flashes  and  shaken  by 
deafening  thunder. 

Pam  sat,  looking  in  her  agony  of  fear  very  monkey-like, 
huddled  in  her  chair,  her  hands  gripping  its  arms. 

"  The  rain  must  come  soon,  poor  child — ah !  " 

The  flash  of  lightning  that  interrupted  him  was  almost  on 
the  instant  followed  by  a  crashing  noise  that  actually  shook 
the  house. 

"Struck!" 

As  he  spoke,  Pam  rushed  to  him  and  in  a  paroxysm  of 
terror  threw  herself  into  his  arms. 

"  It  struck  the  big  beech,  dear — we  are  safe,"  he  mur- 
mured, stroking  her  shoulder,  and  full  of  pity  for  her. 

"  Hark,  there's  the  rain." 

Without  speaking,  she  continued  to  cling  to  him,  trem- 
bling from  head  to  foot.  "  Poor  little  girl,  dear  old  Pam," 
he  murmured  soothingly. 


264  P  AM 

"Well,  by  God!" 

Pam  sprang  aside  at  the  sound  of  the  new  voice,  and 
turning  saw  Charnley  Burke  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"Mr.  Burke!" 

"  I — who  is  this  gentleman?     Ah!   Mr.  Peele!  " 

The  big  man's  face  was  purple  with  fury,  his  eyes  bulging 
and  bloodshot. 

Peeie  rose.  "  Yes.  I  am  the  owner  of  this  house. 
Perhaps  you  may  owe  me  some  explanation,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  You  are  right.  I  came  to  Torpington,  with  her  per 
mission,  to  see  Miss  Yeoland.  Her  maid  telling  me  she 
had  gone  for  a  walk,  I  followed.  I  saw  her  come  in  here, 
and  waited  for  her  to  come  out.  Then — the  storm.  I 
thought  her  hostess  might  give  me  shelter.  Where,"  he 
added,  when  he  had  with  a  great  effort  finished  his  story, 
"where  is  her  hostess?" 

Pam  had  left  Peele  and  stood  by  her  own  chair,  her 
hands  on  its  back. 

"  Mr.  Peele  is  my  host.  There  is  no  hostess  here,"  she 
said  quietly.  "  Who  let  you  in  ?  " 

"  Yes!     I  should  have  been  announced,  eh?  " 

"  Hold  your  tongue!  "  Peele  came  a  step  forward.  "  You 
have  found  your  way  into  my  house;  be  kind  enough  to 
keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  head  so  long  as  you  are  in  it." 

"  I  shall  not  be  in  it  long,  Mr.  Peele.  I  sail  for  Aus- 
tralia to-morrow.  I  came  to — to  say  good-bye  to — to  a  girl 
I — honoured — and  I  find  her  here.  You  are  young,  my 
dear,  to  have  so  early  shown  your  blood."  Then  he  went 
on,  turning  again  to  Peele,  "  Don't  try  to  fight  me,  or  I'll 
break  your  back." 

"  I  cannot  fight  you  any  more  than  I  could  fight  a  mad 
bull.  But  I  can  run  this  into  you,"  seizing  the  rapier,  "  and 
if  you  do  not  at  once  leave  my  house,  by  God,  I  will." 

^am   held    up    her    hand    as   he    finished.     "Mr.    Peele, 


AND  YOU  WOULD  HAVE  TO  SAY 
ABOUT  IT— EXACTLY  NOTHING'" 


P  A  M  265 

listen — don't  hurt  him — I'll  make  him  go.  And  now,  Mr. 
Burke,  you  listen  to  me.  Mr.  Peele  is  the  best  friend  I 
have  in  the  world.  I  love  him.  Oh,  not  in  the  way  you 
mean,  but  I  love  him.  And  if,  by  chance,  I  did  love  him 
in  the  way  you  mean,  and  he  me,  I  should  be  here  in  the 
way  you  mean,  too.  And  you  would  have  to  say  about  it — 
exactly  nothing.  I  am  my  own  mistress,  and  shall  always 
do  what  I  like.  What  I  now  like  is  to  say  good-bye  to  you, 
and  to  add  that  I  think  you  a  very  ridiculous  person,  and 
that  I  shall  never  willingly  speak  another  word  to  you." 

Her  cool,  clear  voice,  each  word  enunciated  with  the 
greatest  distinctness,  seemed  to  fall  on  the  heated  mental 
atmosphere  as  the  rain  had  fallen  on  the  storm-torn  world 
a  few  minutes  before. 

The  colour  ebbed  out  of  Burke's  face,  Peele  rested  the 
point  of  the  rapier  on  the  floor,  and  a  short  silence  fell. 

"  Very  well,  I  will  go.  I  believe  you — that  you  are 
straight  up  to  this.  You  know  why  I  came;  I  shall  never 
trouble  you  again.  I  am  a  rough  man — a  wild  bull,  per- 
haps— but  my  wife  must  be  different.  Good-bye." 

Without  a  word  to  Peele   he  turned  and  left  the  house. 

After  a  moment  Pam  said  quietly,  "  I  suppose  I  really 
shouldn't  have  come,  should  I  ?  " 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I,  that  it  was  as  innocent  as — • 
going  to  church.  Damn  it,  it  insults  you  even  to  say  that 
I  never  had  a  thought " 

He  broke  off  savagely. 

"  Oh,  I  know.  Of  course  you  hadn't.  But,  do  you 

think "  hesitating,  she  took  up  her  hat  and  pinned  it  on. 

"  You  remember  what  Ravaglia  told  me  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Well,  do  you  think  that  he,  when  he  comes,  will 
mind  ?  She  said  he'll  want  '  not  only  my  future,  but  my 
past  as  well.'  Will  he  be  angry  with  me  for  coming?" 

"  No,"  cried  Peele  vehemently.     "  You  tell  him  about  it 


266  P  AM 

and  he  won't  be  angry  with  you.  I  should  have  known 
better,  but  Heaven  knows " 

"  The  rain  has  stopped ;  I  must  go.  I'll  go  across  the 
fields,  so  I  shan't  meet  Mr.  Burke." 

"  Yes.     Pam,  I  can't  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am." 

"You  needn't  be.  It's  all  right.  I  don't  care  a  button 
what  Charnley  Burke  said.  And  it  has  been  well  worth  it. 
I've  loved  every  minute  I've  been  with  you." 

"  So  have  I.     Write  me  sometimes,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.  And  you — don't  over  work.  Remember,  you  are 
not  strong  yet." 

He  took  her  hands  in  his.  "  God  bless  you,  dear.  And 
when  he  comes,  I  shall  tell  him  that  I  think  him  the  happiest 
man  in  the  world." 

Then  she  left  him,  disregarding  the  tempest  of  rain,  and 
going  to  an  upstairs  window  he  stood  and  watched  her 
speeding  over  the  fields  towards  the  murky  town. 


PART    V 
CHAPTER   I 


'  DEARLY  beloved,  we  are  gathered  together  in  the  sight 
of  God,  and  in  the  face  of  this  company,  to  join  together 
this  man  and  this  woman.'  " 

The  Reverend  Edmund  Lee  had  a  very  beautiful  voice, 
and  his  Oxford  education  had  modified  the  soft  slurring  of 
his  Virginian  accent  into  something  unusually  attractive. 

He  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  with  a  delicate  face,  above  which 
a  mass  of  rather  long,  childishly  silky  hair  lay  like  an  untidy 
halo. 

Behind  him,  through  the  open  window,  a  soft  sea-breeze 
blew  in,  fluttering  his  surplice,  and  drawing  little  gusts  of 
sweetness  from  the  flowers  with  which  the  charming,  shabby 
room  was  filled. 

"  ' why  they  may  not  be  lawfully  joined   together, 

let  him  now  speak,  or  else  '  " — dramatically — "  '  hereafter 
forever  hold  his  peace.'  " 

There  was  no  reason.  No  other  man ;  no  other  woman ; 
no  hereditary  insanity;  no  hideous  disparity  of  years.  There 
was  no  impediment. 

1 '  Guy,  wilt  thou  have  this  woman  to  be  thy  wedded 
wife?'" 

"  I  will." 

Sacheverel  answered  distinctly,  his  brown  face  held  bravely 
to  the  afternoon  sun.  His  hair  had  thinned  at  the  temples, 
his  waistcoat  was  fuller  than  of  old,  but  he  was,  more  than 
one  of  the  onlookers  thought,  rather  splendid  at  that 
moment. 

267 


268  P  A  M 

"  '  Pauline  Mary,  wilt  thou  have  this  man  to  be  thy 
wedded  husband  ?  ' ' 

The  young  chaplain,  with  his  thin  face,  like  that  of  some 
saint  in  an  old  picture,  was  moved  by  the  scene,  and  his 
mellow  voice  laid  a  wonderful  emphasis  on  the  words,  "  and 
forsaking  all  others,  keep  thee  only  unto  him,  so  long  as  ye 
both  shall  live?" 

And  the  woman  who  had  indeed  "  forsaken  all  others  and 
kept  her  only  unto  him  "  for  twenty  years,  answered,  her 
hollow  eyes  filled  with  tears,  "  I  will." 

The  beautiful  service  went  on,  the  little  congregation 
listening  closely;  an  over-ripe  rose  shed  its  leaves  softly 
over  a  polished  table;  a  bird  sang  a  few  sudden  notes  in 
the  darkness  of  the  ilex-grove  outside;  a  small  lizard  flashed 
past  one  of  the  windows;  some  one  at  the  back  of  the  room 
gave  a  muffled  sob. 

'  Those  whom  God  has  joined  together,  let  no  man  put 
asunder.'  " 

Guy  Sacheverel  and  Pauline  Yeoland  were  man  and 
wife. 

As  the  chaplain  laid  down  his  book  Pam  came  forward 
quietly  and  kissed  her  mother.  "  Come,  dearest,  you  must 
sit  down  and  rest  now,  and  have  a  glass  of  wine,"  she  said, 
seating  her  in  a  great  chair,  against  whose  dark  leather  back 
her  delicate  blonde  beauty  stood  out  in  striking  relief.  "  Are 
you  very  tired  ?  " 

"  No,  dear, — I  am  so  much  stronger  now.  Ah,  Pilgrim, 
my  good  old  Jane !  "  Pilgrim,  in  a  new  silk  gown  and  a 
much  curled  front,  a  vanity  to  which  encroaching  baldness 
had  of  late  constrained  her,  kissed  the  hand  of  the  woman 
she  had  served  so  faithfully,  her  eyes  wet  and  swollen  with 
tears. 

"  Thank  God !  Mrs.  Sacheverel,"  she  said,  her  voice 
husky. 


P  A  M  269 

"  Go  'way,  PUly,  you  tearful  old  goose,"  commanded  Pam 
sternly,  "  I  won't  have  you  upsetting  her.  Look,  mother 
dear, — the  Happy  Bridegroom !  " 

Sacheverel  swung  across  the  room  with  the  jaunty  grace 
he  had  never  lost,  and  sat  down  by  his  wife.  "  Well,  Pam, 
you  little  match-maker,  are  you  satisfied  at  last?  "  he  asked, 
his  eyes  rather  grave,  though  he  smiled. 

"  I  am.     And  did  you  ever  see  mother  look  so  lovely?  " 

"Never,"  he  returned  with  conviction.  "Ah,  Pauline!" 

Pam  watched  their  faces  as  he  took  her  mother's  shadowy 
hand  in  his,  and  they  gazed  at  each  other  for  a  moment  in 
silence,  and  the  young  clergyman  watched  her. 

Her  face  wore  a  curious  expression,  half-tender,  half 
amused,  which  puzzled  him.  Then  suddenly  she  smiled 
gaily,  as  the  servant,  the  youthful  Antonio  of  the  old  days, 
grown  several  pounds  heavier  with  the  years,  and  resplen< 
dent  in  a  new  livery,  approached  with  a  small  glass  of  wine 
on  a  large  silver  salver. 

"  Ah,  signora"  the  man  exclaimed,  beaming  with  true 
Italian  sympathy  at  the  strange  little  scene,  "  who  would 
have  thought,  six  months  ago,  that  we  should  ever  see  this 
day !  Dio,  quanta  abbiamo  pregato  alia  Santissima!  " 

"  I  am  sure  that  your  prayers  helped  my  recovery,  An^ 
tonio,"  answered  his  mistress  gently.  "  Don't  let  MarrietU 
work  too  hard,  and  don't  forget:  I  am  to  be  godmother." 

Mr.  Lee  watched  curiously.  It  was  an  extraordinary 
household,  and  had,  from  his  first  knowledge  of  it,  a  week 
before  when  Sacheverel  had  come  and  asked  him  to  per- 
form the  marriage  ceremony,  interested  him  keenly.  Thor- 
oughly convinced  that  the  man  and  woman  whom  he  had 
in  the  presence  of  their  daughter  just  made  one  had  com- 
mitted one  of  the  worst  sins  mentioned  in  the  decalogue,  the 
sight  of  them,  evidently  perfectly  happy  and  quite  un- 
ashamed, gave  the  young  man  a  feeling  of  unreality.  He  half 


270  P  A  M 

expected  to  see  them  all  melt  away  mistily,  as  people  do  in 
dreams. 

Pam,  slim  and  graceful  in  her  yellow  crepe  gown,  was  to 
him  that  most  alluring  thing  in  the  world  to  a  young  man: 
a  lovely  woman  whose  character  is  a  mystery.  It  would 
have  been  more  comprehensible  to  him  if  Pam  had  shown 
some  slight  sign  of  embarrassment  at  this  strange  gathering. 
The  man  was  wise  enough  to  realise  that  being  thoroughly 
accustomed  to  any  circumstance  robs  it  of  the  greater  part 
of  its  awkwardness,  but  it  seemed  to  him  strange  that  even 
with  himself,  in  his  sacerdotal  quality,  the  girl  seemed  quite 
at  ease.  He  knew  that  her  father  and  mother  had  lived 
for  years  in  an  unhallowed  way,  and  she  knew  that  he 
knew  it,  yet,  as  the  party  went  into  the  dining-room  for 
the  little  wedding-feast,  she  chatted  to  him  as  easily  as  if 
her  own  existence  were  not  a  most  eloquent  witness  to  that 
sin. 

She  was  full  of  a  half-maternal  care  for  the  bride,  too. 
that  had  its  absurd  side.  "  You  won't  let  her  get  too  tired, 
father,  will  you?  "  she  insisted.  "  Remember  how  long  she 
was  ill,  and  how  dreadfully!" 

11  No  danger  of  my  forgetting  that,  my  dear.  Every 

time  I  look  at  her Sacheverel  broke  off.  She  had 

been  so  ill  ever  since  October,  with  the  horrible,  dragging 
typhoid,  that  even  now,  in  April,  he  could  not  bear  to  think 
of  it. 

Mr.  Lee  looked  first  at  the  mother,  then  at  the  daughter. 

Mrs.  Sacheverel  was  much  the  more  beautiful,  and  her 
short  hair,  curling  in  baby-like  rings  all  over  her  head,  made 
her  look,  in  the  shaded  light,  almost  younger  than  her 
daughter. 

Pam  had  stopped  growing,  and  her  slim,  vigorous  young 
figure  had  lost  its  angles.  Mr.  Lee  particularly  admired 
the  gleaming  net-work  of  glossy  chestnut  hair  which  almost 


P  A  M  271 

covered  her  head,  and  the  brilliance  of  which  made  her 
small  face  look,  at  first  sight,  paler  than  it  really  was. 

"  You  will  be  lonely,  Pam,"  remarked  her  father  sud- 
denly. "  Don't  put  off  your  going  for  too  long." 

"  I  shan't  be  lonely.  I  never  was  in  my  life!  And  the 
wedding  isn't  until  the  3Oth,  so  I  can  have  a  rest  before 
undertaking  that" 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  married,  Miss  Yeoland  ?  "  asked 
Mr.  Lee,  with  a  little  pang,  for  he  was  only  twenty-seven, 
and  in  spite  of  the  armour  of  his  clerical  garments  peculiarly 
susceptible. 

Pam  laughed  gaily. 

"  Not  I !  One  of  my  cousins  is  to  be,  and  I  am  going  to 
help  with  the  preparations." 

Then  she  turned  again  to  her  mother,  watching  her  with 
the  anxiety  she  had  not  yet  got  over,  for  the  convalescence 
had  been  painfully  long.  Now  at  last,  however,  her  mother 
was  well.  The  girl  remembered  her  arrival  at  Houlgate, 
her  mother's  weakness  and  languor,  her  father's  growing 
anxiety.  She  had  told  the  story  of  poor  Mrs.  Kennedy, 
but  it  met  with  an  indifference  which  seemed  to  Pam,  in 
spite  of  all  her  philosophy,  a  little  cruel ;  while  to  the  history 
of  Anna  Botson,  related  through  some  unanalysed  instinct  to 
her  father  alone,  he  made  the  astounding  reply  that  he 
couldn't  place  the  woman  at  all. 

"  I  can't  have  laughed  at  her,  you  know,"  he  insisted 
gently,  wagging  his  head  in  mild  amusement,  "  for  I  can't 
even  remember  her !  Ugly  ?  They  were  all  ugly,  my  dear, 
in  that  dreadful  town,  except — Susie." 

To-day,  sitting  at  her  father's  wedding-feast,  the  thought 
of  that  other  one  returned  to  her  mind  again  and  again. 

Her  keen  imagination  pictured  poor,  pretty  Susie  on  his 
other  side;  she  half  expected  him  to  turn  from  her  mother 
and  smile  down  tenderly  at  her,  as  he  must  have  done,  on 


272  P  A  M 

that  other  day, — her  young,  handsome  father,  who  was  in 
love  with  the  little  ordinary  thing! 

"  Down  frown  that  way,  Pam,  you  look  too  like  Cally," 
remarked  Sacheverel  at  this  point,  and  the  girl  started. 
"  Oh,  my  poor  old  boy,  I  forgot  to  let  him  out ;  he  is  still 
locked  in  my  room ! "  Rising,  she  left  the  room  with 
the  singularly  graceful  gait  she  had  inherited  from  her 
father. 

"  Who  is  Cally?  "  inquired  Mr.  Lee. 

"  Her  monkey,  a  most  unattractive  old  beast  whom  she 
has  had  for  years,  and  tenderly  loves." 

"  I  should  imagine  that  Miss  Yeoland  is  constant,"  re- 
turned the  Virginian,  with  a  certain  air  that  highly  amused 
his  host. 

It  was  plainly  to  be  seen  that  the  good-looking  parson 
was  falling  in  love  with  the  girl.  She  was  going,  the  father 
told  himself  with  anticipatory  amusement,  to  play  the  deuce 
with  men. 

"  Mother,  dear," — Pam  had  returned, — "  the  carriage  is 
at  the  door,  and  Claire  has  brought  everything  down;  you 
have  not  too  much  time." 

"  Let  me  finish  my  ice,  Pam." 

"  I  can't  let  you  miss  the  train,  can  I  ?  Father,  it  really 
is  time." 

"  Good,"  he  replied  gaily,  laughing  as  he  rose.  "  Have 
you  got  the  old  shoe  ready  ?  " 

Pam  nodded,  the  monkey  close  in  her  arms.  She  was  not 
merry. 

A  moment  later  she  stood  in  the  door  under  the  little 
"  marquise,"  watching  her  father  as  he  and  the  maid  ar- 
ranged her  mother's  pillows  in  the  carriage. 

Sacheverel  offered  the  clergyman  a  seat  down  to  the  town, 
but  he  refused,  and  after  bowing  mutely  to  every  one  in 
turn  started  on  his  way  through  the  olives. 


P  A  M  273 

Pilgrim,  the  cook,  Antonio,  and  Pam  were  the  only 
ones  left. 

"  Good-bye,  Pam." 

"  Good-bye,  mother." 

"  Good-bye,  little  girl."  The  old  carriage  was  off,  creak- 
ing over  the  gravel. 

"  Buon  viaggio,  signori/    Buonissimo  viaggio!" 

Bang!  The  slipper  struck  the  coachman's  broad  back, 
and  fell  into  the  carriage. 

"  AddiQ,  signori! — buonissimo  viaggio!" 

The  little  group  of  servants  withdrew  slowly  into  the 
coolness  of  the  house,  leaving  Pam  and  Caliban  alone  in 
the  sun. 

It  was  over,  then!  She  had  kept  her  promise  to  that 
poor  dying  woman,  and  they  were  married.  And  now,  what 
should  she  do?  During  the  long  months  of  her  mother's 
illness  the  girl  had  grown  to  know  her  father  in  a  new  way, 
while  constant  nursing  had  to  a  certain  extent  drawn  her 
closer  to  her  mother. 

Half  unconsciously  she  had  hoped  that  the  new  com- 
panionship would  last,  but  it  had  not  lasted.  With  every 
hour  of  Pauline's  recovery  Pam  had  grown  less  necessary 
to  both  her  and  Sacheverel;  they  were  kind  to  the  girl,  but 
they  did  not  need  her. 

And  now  even  they  were  gone,  and  she  was  alone. 

"  Ebbene!  Pam  Yeoland,"  she  apostrophised  herself  in 
angry  disdain  of  the  feeling  that  was  hurting  her  throat, 
"are  you  going  to  howl?  You  certainly  ought  to  be  used 
to  being  alone  by  this  time!" 

Walking  slowly  round  the  house  she  sat  down  on  the 
stone  bench  near  which  she  had  crouched  in  the  darkness 
that  evening  years  ago  when  Christopher  Cazalet  had  ex- 
pounded to  Pilgrim  his  plan  for  taking  the  child  to 
England. 


274  P  A  M 

It  was  a  perfect  afternoon,  as  warm  as  one  in  a  northern 
June,  although  it  was  not  yet  the  middle  of  April. 

The  sea,  stretched  in  bland  beauty  before  her,  was  no 
bluer  than  the  sky,  and  the  brilliant  colouring  of  the  whole 
scene  was  cunningly  softened  by  the  masses  of  silver-grey 
olives  that  covered  the  slope. 

"  Cally,  dear,"  Pam  said  at  last  absently,  "  I  trust  you 
are  fond  of  nature,  for  it's  all  you're  likely  to  have  for 
several  days.  Just  look  at  that  sea  and  tell  me  if  in  your 
wildest  pipe-dreams  you  ever  saw  anything  lovelier?  And 
it  is  so  warm,  too.  I  wonder,"  she  added  with  the  sudden 
briskness  of  the  unoccupied  to  whom  a  delightful  inspiration 
has  come,  "  why  I  can't  go  for  a  swim!  " 

A  few  minutes  later,  a  big  bundle  under  one  arm,  the 
monkey  perched  on  the  other  shoulder,  and  regardless  of 
the  fact  that  a  yellow  crepe  gown  is  not  the  best  garment 
in  the  world  in  which  to  rush  down  a  rough,  dusty  path, 
she  was  flying  through  the  trees,  laughing  and  talking  non- 
sense to  the  little  beast  who  alone  of  all  the  living  crea- 
tures in  the  world  belonged  to  her.  Caliban,  squatting  at 
the  edge  of  the  water,  watched  with  grave  interest  while 
his  mistress  splashed  about  in  the  sun-warmed  water.  It 
was  the  first  swim  of  the  season,  and  Pam  had  been  unable 
to  find  her  oil-skin  cap.  At  first  she  swam  carefully,  hold- 
ing her  crown  of  braids  cautiously  above  the  waves,  but 
at  last  she  could  no  longer  resist  the  joy  of  diving  from  the 
little  platform,  so  that,  when  Caliban  had  waited  impatiently 
at  the  door  of  the  cabin  for  what  seemed  to  him,  judging 
by  his  chattering  protests,  an  unnecessarily  long  time,  she 
emerged  once  more  clothed,  but  with  a  towel  around  her 
neck  and  her  splendid  hair,  still  wet  and  gleaming,  hanging 
nearly  to  her  feet. 

"  Shame  on  you ! — an  old  monkey  like  you  using  such 
language!  " 


P  A  M  275 

Sitting  down  in  the  warm  sand,  with  her  usual  magnifi- 
cent disregard  of  clothes,  the  girl  set  to  work  to  dry  her 
hair,  amusing  herself  at  the  same  time  with  the  monkey. 

It  was  delightfully  warm,  and  the  swim  had  done  her 
good;  what  she  had  considered  her  idiotic  blues  had  flown; 
she  was  eighteen,  and  the  world  lay  before  her. 

"  Caliban  Sacheverel,"  she  said  at  length,  with  much 
solemnity,  rising  and  shaking  back  her  fresh-combed  hair, 
"  never  let  yourself  get  into  the  way  of  thinking  that  you 
are  necessary  to  your  mother  and  father,  for  you  aren't. 
They  can  be  fond  of  you,  in  a  way,  and  they  are  very  good 
to  you,  but  they  don't  need  you  any  more  than  they  need 
me.  Now  come  along.  The  sun  will  set  in  a  minute,  and 
the  sky  will  be  glorious  from  the  terrace." 

Taking  the  little  creature  in  her  arms,  she  ran  up  the 
path  almost  as  easily  as  she  had  run  down.  At  the  top  she 
turned  and  looked  back. 

The  sun  had  dipped  into  the  sea,  and  the  sky  was  a  mass 
of  snowy  and  rosy  clouds  flecked  and  streaked  with  gold; 
over  the  purpling  water  stretched  a  track  of  burnished 
scales,  and  yonder,  pale  in  the  glow,  the  moon  was  rising. 

Pam  drew  a  deep  breath  of  acute  joy,  and  turning  found 
herself  face  to  face  with  James  Peele. 

"  You !  "  he  cried,  staring  at  her  in  complete  surprise. 
"  What  are  you  doing  here?  " 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?     This  is  Villa  Arcadie!  '* 


CHAPTER  II 


"IT  is  really  you,  Pam?    And  this  is  Arcadia?  " 

"Yes." 

"  You  told  me — do  you  remember  ? — that  I  could  never 
come  to  Arcadia." 

"  And  you  have  found  your  way  in  spite  of  me !  " 

"  No.  I — was  led.  I  was  taking  a  walk,  and  some  fairy 
led  me  here." 

"  In  other  words,  you  tried  to  take  a  short  cut  down 
from  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  strayed  in  here." 

"  Yes.     I  have  strayed  into — Arcadia." 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other,  their  eyes,  as  they 
glibly  talked  nonsense,  full  of  the  evening  light. 

"  Yes,"  Peele  repeated,  "  I  have  certainly  strayed  into 
Arcadia.  And  you,  little  Pam  of  a  year  ago,  are  you  glad 
to  see  me?  " 

"  I  should  not  be,"  she  returned,  ignoring  his  outstretched 
hand.  "  I  ought  to  snub  you,  pretend  to  have  forgotten  you, 
for  you  forgot  me,  you  never  answered  my  letters;  but — I 
am  glad,  Mr.  Peele." 

Taking  her  hand,  he  bent  and  kissed  it  with  an  easy 
grace  that  was  a  little  unexpected  in  one  of  his  bearing. 

"  Forgive  all  that:  I  was  busy  and  troubled.  And  now 
we  are  in  Arcadia." 

"  Yes.  Come,  let's  sit  down  on  that  bench."  Leading 
the  way,  she  sat  down,  swinging  her  now  nearly  dry  hair 
back  with  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  I  have  been  swimming  and  had  no  cap,"  she  explained 

276 


P  A  M  277 

carelessly.  "  Now  tell  me  what  you  are  doing  in  this  part  of 
the  world." 

He  watched  her,  forgetting  the  sunset,  his  soft  hat 
crumpled  in  his  hands  as  he  clasped  them  about  his  knee. 

"  There  is  a  town,  a  place  called  Athens,"  he  began 
slowly,  "  ruled  over  by  a  worthy  prince  named  Theseus, 
and  people  with  vague  personalities — it  lies  down  there, 
at  the  edge  of  the  sea. 

"  Hither,  O  maiden,  have  I  come,  on  serious  matters 
bent.  Then,  this  evening — no,  I  do  not  believe  that  it  was 
mere  chance.  I  believe  that  Puck  turned  my  alien  footsteps 
this  way!  And  here  is  Caliban,  too.  Caliban,  my  ancient 
friend,  how  are  you?  Pam,  I  can  hardly  believe  that  it  is 
really  you !  " 

"  Nor  I."  They  were  both  silent  for  a  few  minutes, 
their  thoughts  back  in  the  old  days,  in  the  old  English  house 
and  garden. 

"And  so  this  is  your  home!  This  is  the  place  you  used 
to  tell  me  about,"  he  went  on. 

"Yes.  There  are  the  olives,  you  remember?  It  is  so 
strange  that  you  should  happen  to  come  to-night.  I  am  all 
alone;  my  father  and  mother  have  just  gone  away;  they 
were  married  this  afternoon." 

"  Ah !  "  It  seemed  to  him  quite  in  keeping  with  all  the 
rest  that  she  should  be  announcing  the  marriage  of  her 
parents. 

"  You  have  always  been  alone,  Pam,  when  I  have  known 
you;  you  were  never  a  permanent  person  in  a  permanent 
setting.  You  had  either  just  come,  or  were  just  going." 

The  curious  old  look  of  tragedy  came  to  her  eyes  as  he 
spoke,  but  as  he  finished  she  smiled. 

"  Do  you  remember  calling  me  a  privateer?" 

"  Yes." 

"  That  is  what  you  mean.     But  am  I  not  rather  a  cheery 


278  P  A  M 

little  pleasure  yacht  that  is  under  no  orders,  and  can  land 
at  any  port  ?  " 

"  Please  don't  be  a  boat  of  any  kind.  You  are  just  Pam, 
if  you  are  not  a  fairy.  Look,  there  goes  my  worthy  Puck, 
swinging  his  lantern !  " 

It  was  an  early  fire-fly  flitting  over  the  grass.  The 
light  in  the  sky  was  fading  now,  and,  as  the  roseate  glow 
paled,  the  moon  gathered  gold,  and  shadows  crept  over  the 
world. 

"  We  will  have  supper  there  at  the  end  of  the  terrace," 
the  girl  said,  rising.  "  I  must  go  and  order  it,  and  do 
something  to  my  mane." 

"  Can't  you  leave  your  mane  as  it  is  ?  " 

He  smiled  at  her  lack  of  vanity  as  she  returned  carelessly, 
"  Oh,  no,  it  is  an  awful  bother  hanging:  it's  heavy." 

Then  she  went  back  to  the  house,  her  long  shadow  hurry- 
ing beside  her.  Peele  looked  after  her,  his  lips  still  stirred 
by  a  smile.  How  little  she  had  changed,  and  how 
much! 

Half  an  hour  later  the  two  sat  together  at  a  small  table 
near  a  heliotrope-clad  stone  balustrade,  the  remains  of  a 
chicken  pasty,  a  dish  of  peaches,  and  a  bottle  of  Barsac  be-1 
tween  them. 

"  I  can't  eat,"  the  girl  exclaimed  suddenly,  putting  down 
her  fork.  "  I'm  too  excited." 

"  So  am  I,  Pam!  Imagine  my  feelings,  if  you  can!  Pro- 
saic, middle-aged,  hardworking  old  I,  finding  myself  sud- 
denly with  you  in  Arcadia!  " 

"Are  you  married!  "  She  paused,  as  she  put  the  abrupt 
question,  in  her  occupation  of  filling  his  glass  with  the  golden 
wine,  her  dark  eyes  fixed  on  his^ 

"Married?     No." 

"But  why?" 

Setting  down  the  bottle,  she  put  her  elbows  on  the  table 


P  A  M  279 

and,  leaning  her  chin  on  her  clasped  hands,  looked  at  him 
gravely. 

"  I  have  been  in  South  Africa,"  he  answered,  "  and  then — • 
you  heard  of  poor  Wight's  death?  He  was  killed  a  week 
after  my  return." 

"  The  Duchess's  son?    Oh,  I  am  sorry." 

"  .Yes,  it  was  very  sad ;  an  automobile  race,  it  was.  The 
poor  Duchess  was  awfully  cut  up  about  it." 

"  Poor  thing!     What  is  the  new  Duke  like?" 

Peele  smiled. 

"  A  very  good  sort ;  has  gone  in  for  politics,  and  will,  I 
think,  be  very  useful." 

"Young,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes.     Twenty-four.     Why?" 

"  I  was  thinking,"  she  returned  shrewdly,  "  that  you  will 
know  how  to  teach  him  the  way  he  should  go." 

"  You  are  a  clever  little  person.  Yes,  I  think  we  shall  be 
able,  in  the  future,  to  benefit  each  other.  But  this  is  no 
talk  for  such  an  evening.  Tell  me  about  yourself.  Where 
were  you  all  the  summer  ?  " 

"  At  Houlgate.  My  mother  was  not  well,  and  then,  as 
soon  as  we  reached  home  in  October,  typhoid  developed. 
She  nearly  died." 

"  I  remember:  you  wrote  me  that  she  was  ill.  I  was  a 
brute  not  to  answer  your  letter." 

"  You  were.  But  go  on  about  the  politics.  I  want  to 
hear  more." 

He  looked  up  in  surprise  from  his  peach. 

"  But  surely  you  know — you  read  the  papers  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  never  read  a  word  about  you"  Her  face 
looked  hard  in  the  soft  evening  light. 

"Why?" 

"  You  cared  nothing  for  me.  Why  should  I  care  for 
you?" 


280  P  A  M 

"  By  Jove,  did  you  care  that  much  ?  " 

Reaching  across  the  table  he  laid  his  hand  for  an  instant 
on  hers. 

"  Of  course  I  cared  that  much.  You  knew  I  did,  and 
you  didn't  even  take  the  trouble  to  write  me  one  little 
letter!" 

"  I  wonder  why  it  was.  It  shall  never  happen  again, 
Pam.  You  see,  I  was  very  busy,  and  you  were  such  a 
child." 

"  I  know.  It  doesn't  matter  now,  but  that's  why  I 
never  read  anything  about  you  in  the  papers.  Go  on,  and 
tell  me." 

And  he  told  her,  in  a  few  well-chosen  words  which  seemed 
to  him  as  well  as  to  her  to  be  strangely  eloquent,  the  story 
of  his  sudden  jump  into  prominence  in  connection  with 
the  great  South  African  problem. 

One  day,  shortly  after  she  had  left  Torpington,  as  he  sat 
in  the  House  frowning  and  bored  by  a  stupid  speech  on 
the  subject,  something  he  had  seen  years  before  when  he 
was  travelling  with  a  friend  in  South  Africa  came  into  his 
mind,  explained  and  illuminated  by  a  chance  phrase  of  the 
prosy  orator.  Too  cautious  to  risk  speaking  at  once,  he 
had,  armed  with  the  latest  Blue-books  on  the  subject,  studied 
and  reflected  for  several  days  and  nights,  shaping  his 
thoughts  and  his  words,  learning  the  statistics,  and  arranging 
his  speech. 

The  speech  came  off,  winning  instant  attention,  and  in 
its  success  stamping  him  unmistakably  as  a  man  who  must 
devote  his  talents  to  that  particular  branch  of  that  particular 
subject. 

"  I  had  found  my  'clou' "  he  told  Pam  simply. 

"  Father  told  me  that  you  had  become  a  '  South  Afri- 
can,' "  she  returned,  "  but  I  wouldn't  read  about  it." 

"  Pam !     How  you  must  have  cared !  " 


P  A  M  281 

There  was  no  coxcombry  in  his  speech,  and  she  knew  it 
as  well  as  he. 

"  I  did  care,"  she  returned  with  the  same  frankness. 
"And— then?" 

"  Then  I  went  to  see — a  man  in  Natal.  It  went  off  well. 
I  got  back  in  November." 

"  Did  they  send  you?  " 

"  No.  I — I  was  not  well,  and  the  doctors  advised  a  sea- 
voyage,  so  I  went  there." 

"To  rest  yourself  with  political  work!  Oh,  what  an 
awful  person  you  are!  How  I  used  to  have  to  scold  you!  " 

"  Yes.  The  next  time  I  go  to  South  Africa,"  he  added, 
staring  thoughtfully  into  his  empty  wine-glass,  "  I  am  going 
as  an  envoy  from  my  government.  And  some  day — I  shall 
be  Colonial  Secretary." 

"Going  to  poison  Mr.  Chamberlain?" 

"  He  will  be  out  before  long,  and  I  am  only  thirty-six." 

He  looked  several  years  older  than  his  age,  she  observed. 
He  had  grown  very  grey,  and  the  lines  about  his  eyes  and 
mouth  were  deep.  It  seemed  to  her,  too,  that  when  he 
spoke  of  his  ambition  the  mask  of  cold  resolution  that 
settled  down  on  his  face  set  her  as  far  from  him  as  she  had 
been  the  evening  when  she  first  saw  him. 

The  man  who  had  talked  of  Arcadia  had  gone;  this 
man  was  old  and  cold  and  hard,  and  she  but  a  child  to  him. 

"  Brrr!  "  she  exclaimed  with  the  little  shiver  he  remem- 
bered so  well.  "Enough  of  politics!  I  am  glad  of  your 
success,  but — please  come  down  again  to  my  level.  My 
country  lies  in  the  lowlands.  I  cannot  breathe  in  your 
Olympian  air!  " 

"  Your  land — this  Arcadia — lies  close  under  the  stars, 
dear,"  he  answered  gently ;  "  or,  better  still,  close  under  the 
moon.  Hark! " 

In  the  ilex-grov  ^  nightingale  burst  out  singing,  and  the 


282  P  A  M 

man  and  the  girl,  starting  up  from  their  neglected  supper, 
stood  dose  together,  listening  to  it. 

'  Ut  ego  in  Arcadia — sum' "  said  Peele  as  the  last 
note  died  away.  "  Take  me  down  under  the  olives.  How 
beautiful  their  delicate  shadows  are  on  the  coarse  grass!  " 
They  went  down  the  mossy  steps  and  leaving  the  garden 
passed  into  the  olive-grove. 

"  And  you  said  I  could  not  come — here!  " 

"  You  have  told  me  that  before,  Mr.  Peele," 

*  Then  admit  that  you  were  wrong." 

"  No,  for  I  did  not  mean  this,  as  you  know." 

"  In  all  the  world  there  is  but  one  Arcadia,  Pam,  and 
this  is  it,  and  you  and  I  are  alone  in  it." 

"Alone  in  it!" 

"Yes.  You  and  I  and  the  yellow  moon  and  the  little 
dark  bird  with  the  golden  throat;  just  us  four." 

"  Except  Pilgrim,  and  Antonio,  and  the  cook!  " 

"  Cook  me  no  cook.  Just  you  and  I.  Pam,  it  is  good 
to  be  together?  " 

"Yes." 

They  had  reached  a  bench  built  round  the  most  gnarled 
and  ancient  olive  in  the  grove,  and  as  she  answered  him 
the  young  girl  sat  down. 

"And  you  forgive  me  for  not  having  written?" 

"  Oh,  yes;  it  doesn't  matter  now." 

"  No,  nothing  matters  now,  at  this  moment — but  the 
moonlight  on  your  hair.  Tell  me  all  about  yourself — ex- 
cept that  you  have  grown  to  be  an  adorable  woman!  " 

"There  is  little  to  tell.  I  have  been  with  father  and 
mother  all  the  time." 

"  And  now  they  have  married  and  left  you !  " 

"  Yes.  It  is  so  strange  to  think  of  mother  as  '  Mrs. 
Sacheverel,'  after  all  these  years!  " 

"  You  must  be  glad." 


P  A  M  283 

"  Oh,  me!     I  didn't  care." 

"  But  they  must  have  been  glad."  She  shook  her 
head. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  they  cared  one  way  or  the  other. 
They  did  it  to  please  me." 

"  To  please  you !  " 

"  Yes.     I  promised  poor  Mrs.  Kennedy,  you  know." 

"  But  you,  the  opposer  of  matrimony,  the  apostle  of 
freedom!  That  was  a  strange  whirl  of  fortune's  wheel, 
little  Pam." 

She  did  not  answer  as  he  sat  down  by  her,  and  after  a 
pause  he  went  on,  "  Do  you  remember  how  we  used  to  talk 
about  your  'him  '  ?  And  how,  when  he  came,  you  were  going 
to  love  him  for  ever  and  ever  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Has  he  come?" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  with  an  obvious  sincerity  that  gave 
him  a  pang. 

"  But  when  he  does  come  you  and  he  will  live  in  Arcadia 
• — I  mean  in  the  Arcadia  of  the  mind  and  the  heart — for 
ever?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  How  can  I  tell,  Mr. 
Peele?  So  many  things  might  happen;  he  might  die,  or  he 
might  not  care  for  me." 

Peele  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  rose,  looking  at  his  watch. 

He  was  irritated  with  himself  for  having  been  weak  and 
inconsiderate  enough  to  question  her  so  closely,  and  yet  he 
was  almost  angry  with  her  for  her  utter  unconsciousness. 

They  had  fallen  in  love  with  each  other,  but  only  he, 
who  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  allowing  his  life  to 
be  changed  by  a  sentiment,  knew  what  had  happened,  and 
when  he  had  once  left  her  he  would,  he  told  himself,  have 
the  decency  to  be  glad  that  she  had  not  understood. 

"  I  must  be  off,  Pam,"  he  said,  a  little  stiffly. 


284  P  AM 

"  Yes,  it  is  late.     You  will  come  to-morrow." 

"  No.  I  cannot  come  again.  I  must  be  getting  back 
to  my  work." 

She  looked  up  at  him  inquiringly.  "  But  you  will  come 
to  say  good-bye,  and — I,  too,  go  to  England  in  a  fortnight. 
Evelyn,  my  cousin,  is  to  be  married." 

"  No,  I  shall  not  see  you  again."  His  voice  was  harsh, 
and  the  faint  colour  faded  from  her  cheek  as  he  spoke. 

"  But  why  ?  "  she  asked  piteously,  like  a  child  who  does 
not  understand  why  it  is  punished. 

"  Can't  you  guess  why  ?  "  he  answered,  catching  her  wrists 
and  looking  into  her  eyes.  "  You  didn't  use  to  be  stupid!  " 

Suddenly  her  white  face  was  flooded  with  a  deep  rose- 
colour,  and  she  gave  a  short  laugh.  "  Is  it  that?  " 

"Yes;  it  is  that!" 

"  And  I  never  guessed !  " 

That  was  all.  Catching  her  in  his  arms  he  kissed  her 
mouth  once,  and  then,  a  moment  later,  found  himself  walk- 
ing rapidly  down  the  hill. 


CHAPTER  III 


"MISS  YEOLAND  has  arrived,  your  Grace,  and  she 
wishes  me  to  ask  your  Grace  if  she  may  bring  her — her — 
monkey  up  with  her.  It  seems  that  the  monkey  hid  in  the 
carriage,  and  Miss  Yeoland  discovered  it  only  a  moment 
ago." 

The  Duchess  turned  from  her  glass,  one  cheek  blushing 
sweetly  with  "  Rose  de  Jeunesse,"  the  other  as  yellow  as 
Nature,  abetted  by  Time,  had  made  it.  "  Very  well,  Hen- 
derson. Ask  Miss  Yeoland  to  go  into  the  drawing-room, 
and  tell  her  I  shall  be  delighted  to  see  the  monkey.  Has 
Lady  Henrietta  gone  in  yet?" 

"  No,  your  Grace.     I  believe  not,  your  Grace." 

The  major-domo  marched  solemnly  downstairs  into  the 
great  hall  of  the  hotel,  confident  that  his  splendid  red  silk 
legs  showed  to  great  advantage  against  the  light  carpet, 
and  past  his  humble  confrere,  the  concierge,  to  the  carriage 
in  which  Pam  still  sat. 

"  Oh,  very  well,  thank  you.  No,  don't  trouble  to  take 
him,  he  sometimes  bites,"  the  girl  returned,  when  he  had 
given  his  message  and  opened  the  door  of  her  shabby 
vehicle. 

The  little  brute  in  her  arms,  her  scarlet  cloak  with  its 
too-warm  fur  collar  caught  about  her  with  one  hand,  she 
swept  into  the  hotel,  her  long  white  skirts  dragging  dis- 
regarded. 

"  This  way,  Miss,  if  you  please ;  the  lift  is  not  working 
to-night."  As  she  followed  the  servant  upstairs  and  along 

285 


286  P  A  M 

the  corridor  Pam's  heart  beat  loudly  against  Caliban,  but 
that  unsympathetic  simian  chattered  with  delight  at  having 
got  his  own  way,  and  took  no  heed.  The  girl  had  not  seen 
Peele  since  the  night  before  the  last — the  night  of  the 
wedding. 

All  the  day  before  she  had  waited  for  him,  and  he  had 
not  come,  but  the  afternoon's  post  brought  her  a  note 
from  the  Duchess  asking  her,  without  a  word  of  explana- 
tion, to  come  and  dine  with  her  the  following  evening,  and 
that  evening  was  now  here,  and  in  a  moment  they  would 
meet,  he  and  she. 

She  shivered  slightly  as  the  servant  opened  the  door  of 
the  salon  and  she  passed  in. 

Peele  stood  by  the  fire.  "Ah,  Miss  Yeoland,  how  do 
you  do?  The  Duchess  and  Lady  Henrietta  are  late,  as 
usual." 

They  shook  hands,  and  then  the  major-domo,  taking  off 
her  cloak,  stood  waiting.  "  Give  him  your  scarf,"  sug- 
gested Peele,  quietly  adding,  as  she  obeyed  with  a  quick 
blush,  "  Hello,  my  ancient  and  honourable  Caliban,  this  is 
an  unexpected  pleasure !  " 

"  He  hid  in  the  cab,"  explained  the  girl,  angry  and 
surprised  at  her  own  confusion.  "  He — he  is  very  lonely." 

As  the  door  closed  Peele  said  quickly,  his  face  changing, 
"  Pam,  how  is  Arcadia?  " 

He  did  not  move  a  step  toward  her  as  she  stood,  the 
monkey  in  her  arms  a  curious  addition  to  the  picture  she 
made,  under  a  great  red  lamp.  "  How  is  Arcadia?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I  have  not  been  there  since." 

"Is  that  true?" 

"  True.  I  have  been  in  a  place  without  sunlight,  with- 
out a  moon,  without  blue  in  the  sky  or  sheen  on  the  sea. 
There  was  no  bird  singing  in  the  trees,  no  flowers." 

He  watched  her  with  a  look  of  dreamy  delight  in  his 


"THE  MONKEY  IN  HER  ARMS  A 
CURIOUS  ADDITION  TO  THE 
PICTURE  SHE  MADE" 


PAM  287 

grave  face,  and  then  at  the  last  words  he  frowned,  and, 
drawing  himself  up  stiffly,  said  as  though  continuing  a 
subject  on  which  he  had  been  speaking,  "  Really  delighted 
to  see  you  again.  Ah !  " 

The  Lady  Henrietta  came  hurrying  in,  tugging  at  her 
gloves  and  out  of  breath.  "  My  dear  Pam,  I  do  beg  your 
pardon.  Agnes  was  so  idiotic  to-night  everything  went 
wrong.  My  dear  child,  how  pretty  you  have  grown !  " 
Kissing  the  young  girl,  she  looked  at  her  with  the  frank 
admiration  which  is  one  of  the  pleasant  prerogatives  of  great 
beauty. 

"  Isn't  she  charming,  Jim  ?  " 

"  Very,"  responded  Peele  promptly.  "  How  old  are  you, 
Miss  Pam?" 

"  Eighteen  and  a  half."  The  young  girl's  heart  sank 
painfully  as  the  Lady  Henrietta's  kind  kiss  rested  on  her 
cheek.  In  Arcadia  thoughts  of  honour  and  of  ownership 
had  not  occurred  to  her,  but  now  she  realised  with  a  pang 
that  she  had  no  right  to  Peele.  To  add  to  her  pain,  she 
noticed  that  the  Lady  Henrietta's  face  had  grown  thinner 
and  lost  much  of  its  former  characteristic  repose.  There 
were  worried  lines  about  her  mouth,  and  her  eyes  had  grown 
a  little  hollow.  Not  the  least  unpleasant  thought  resulting 
from  these  observations  was  that  the  lines  in  the  beautiful 
face  that  smiled  on  her  so  kindly  were  drawn  by  Peele's 
hand.  "  He  is  not  good  to  her!  "  the  girl  thought  indig- 
nantly, with  an  angry  flash  of  her  eyes  at  the  surprised  man 
by  the  fire.  Until  that  moment,  engrossed  with  the  sublime 
selfishness  of  a  first  love,  the  girl  had  not  given  a  thought  to 
the  woman  her  lover  had  promised  to  marry.  There  had 
been  in  her  mind,  as  in  her  heart,  room  but  for  that  man  and 
for  herself. 

Now,  reluctantly,  her  mind  opened  and  took  in  the  third 
person  whom  her  heart  could  never  admit. 


288  P  A  M 

"  She  has  a  right,  I  have  none,"  the  girl  told  herself  with 
dreary  justice.  "  I  have  none." 

Her  face  paled  as  she  watched  her  hostess's  daughter, 
who  was  now  talking  to  the  man  who  stood  between 
them. 

"  And  they  say,"  the  Lady  Henrietta  was  saying  to  Peele 
when  the  girl  again  caught  the  thread  of  the  discourse, 
"  that  there  will  be  lots  of  exquisite  rugs  and  things — some 
china,  too — put  up  at  the  sale.  We  must  go,  Jim!  One 
can  never  have  too  many  really  good  rugs." 

Peele  walked  to  the  balcony  and  stood  looking  out.  "  I 
loathe  auctions,"  he  said  impatiently,  "  and  I  shan't  be  able 
to  loiter  in  Paris,  anyway." 

"  It's  the  great  sale,  you  know,  Pam,"  his  fiancee  went  on 
with  a  little  shrug.  "  Ravaglia's  things." 

" Ravaglia!    Is  she  having  a  sale?     But  w hy?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  but  she  is.  The  1st,  2d,  and 
3d  of  May." 

Pam  clasped  her  hands  tightly. 

"  But,  do  tell  me:  she  is  surely  not  poor,  or  ill?  " 

"Why?  You  can't  know  her,  child!  Why  are  you  so 
interested?" 

"  But  I  do  know  her — I  used  to,  that  is.  And  I  was  very 
fond  of  her.  Please  tell  me,  Lady  Henrietta." 

Peele  turned,  drawing  a  gardenia  from  one  of  the  vases 
through  his  buttonhole.  "  I  believe  it  is  because  she  has 
lost  her  health,"  he  said.  "  I  saw  her  driving  in  the  Bois 
a  month  ago,  and  hardly  recognised  her.  Poor  thing,  it  is 
a  pity,  for  she  is  the  best  actress  in  the  world,  without  a 
doubt." 

As  he  finished  speaking  the  Duchess  came  in,  knocking 
over  a  small  table  with  her  train,  and  filling  the  room  with 
scent. 

"  Sorry  to  be  so  late,  but  then  I  always  am  late.     Weil, 


P  A  M  289 

you  bad  little  thing !  "- — to  Pam — "  how  are  you  ?  Aren't 
you  ashamed  of  leaving  me  in  the  lurch  like  that?  " 

Pam  stared.  "Oh,  you  mean  about  going  to  Ireland?" 
she  asked  as  the  ducal  kiss  grazed  her  ear.  "  I  didn't  throw 
you  over,"  she  added,  with  the  logic  which  had  so  amused 
Peele  at  Torpington,  "  for  I  never  said  I'd  go !  I  was  sorry, 
but  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"  You  are  a  wretch !  I  was  furious !  However — you 
have  grown;  quite  grown  up,  I  declare!  I  hope  you're  still 
amusin'?  Jim,  will  you  ring,  please? — these  are  the  most 
unpunctual  people !  " 

"  They  don't  do  so  badly,  mamma,  considering  that  you 
are  always  late,"  suggested  her  daughter  gently. 

"  That  reminds  me  of  the  man  who  said  his  brother-in- 
law  had  been  drunk  for  some  years.  How's  your  grand- 
father?" 

Pam  laughed.  "  He  is  well ;  I'm  going  to  Monks' 
Yeoland  next  week." 

"  Are  you,  indeed !  Well,  just  tell  your  grandfather  that 
he's  an  abominable  old  creature,  never  to  write  to  one — 
will  you?  " 

As  they  sat  down  to  their  rather  cold  soup  her  Grace 
rattled  on.  "And  mind,  whatever  you  do,  don't  marry 
your  fat  cousin." 

"  Do  you  know  Ratty?  " 

The  Duchess  chuckled.  "  I  do.  I  was  at  Monks'  Yeoland 
in  August,  and  Ratty  and  I  had  a  tremendous  flirtation. 
He  told  me — all  he  knew,"  she  added  significantly. 

"Did  he,  indeed?"  Pam  did  not  smile.  She  resented 
jocular  impertinence. 

Caliban,  who  possessed  the  social  virtue  of  abhorring  a 
silence,  and  who,  old  as  he  was,  appeared  to  feel  it  his  duty 
to  amuse  his  hostess,  here  created  a  diversion  by  stealing  he* 
Grace's  bread  and  retiring  with  it  to  a  distant  corner,  where 


290  P  A  M 

he  tore  it  to  bits  with  hungry  sounds,  but  instead  of  eating 
it  stuffed  it  slily  into  a  vase. 

"  Charming,  your  monkey ;  really  a  dear.  And  fancy  my 
finding  out  quite  by  chance  that — you  lived  near  here,"  went 
on  the  Duchess,  turning  again  to  Pam.  "  I  saw  a  package 
of  books  at  the  library  addressed  to  you,  and  asked  the  man 
about  it.  What  a  small  world  it  is !  " 

"  Very."  Then  Peele  was  not  responsible  for  her  in- 
vitation ! 

"And  then  I  heard  that  you  were  alone,  and  wrote  to  you. 
Delighted  to  see  you  again,  my  dear.  And  you  have  grown 
to  be  very  pretty,  too,  hasn't  she,  Henny  ?  " 

"  Charming,  mamma." 

"  Nothing  like  youthful  freshness,  is  there,  Henny?  " 

"  Nothing,  mamma." 

Pam  hated  the  Duchess  at  that  moment. 

Peele  talked  little.  He  had  not  meant  to  see  Pam  again, 
but  in  the  hurry  of  a  busy  day  he  had  not  learnt  of  her 
invitation  to  dinner  until  an  hour  before  her  arrival. 

It  would  have  been  infinitely  better  if  he  had  been  able 
to  slip  quietly  away,  but  the  matter  had  been  taken  out  of 
his  hands,  and  though  against  his  will,  his  heart  beat  strong 
with  happiness  as  he  watched  her.  The  man,  at  thirty -six, 
was  in  love  for  the  first  time. 

As  to  the  girl  herself,  she  could  not  think.  It  was,  as 
she  watched  the  Lady  Henrietta's  careworn  face,  incredible 
to  her  that  for  forty-eight  hours  she  had  forgotten  the  very 
fact  of  her  existence,  yet  so  it  had  been. 

And  now  she  could  not  think ;  she  was  obliged  to  talk  and 
to  listen  to  the  words  of  the  others,  but  she  knew  that  later, 
when  she  was  alone,  she  would  have  to  clear  the  maze  of 
thought  that  whirled  vaguely  through  her  brain.  "  I  must 
decide,  when  I  am  at  home,  what  I  must  do,"  she  told  her- 
self over  and  over. 


P  AM  291 

"  Sir  Albert  Miller  told  you,  didn't  he,  Jim?  " 

Pam  started.  That  Sir  Albert  Miller  was  the  greatest 
authority  in  England  on  South  African  matters  even  she 
knew. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Peele  carelessly. 

"Aren't  they  going  to  send  him — Sir  Albert  Miller — out 
on  a  special  commission?"  Pam  asked.  "Isn't  he  the 
man?" 

Peele's  face  stiffened  into  a  cold  frown. 

"  I  believe  there  is  some  talk  about  it." 

"  Of  course  there  is,  Pam !  He  is  so  close-mouthed,  he 
never  will  tell  us  anything,"  added  Lady  Henrietta,  flushing. 
"And  he,  Miller,  has  been  here,  and  that  is  why  Jim  came 
— quite  as  much  as  to  see  me!  " 

"  And  if  they  do  send  him  out "  Peele  went  on  slowly. 

"  Yes,  if  they  do,  what  then,  Jim  ?  " 

"  I  was  going  to  say  that  they  would  certainly  have  sent 
Dabney  with  him,  if " 

"  If  Dabney  were  not  dead ! "  All  the  lines  in  his 
fiancee's  face  were  suddenly  accentuated  as  she  spoke,  and 
Pam's  heart  gave  a  great  throb. 

"And  as  he  is  dead,"  put  in  the  Duchess,  throwing  a 
grape  to  Caliban,  who  was  sitting  up  on  a  chair  like  a  gentle- 
man, "  whom  will  they  send  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Duchess!  If  I  should  tell,  even  to  you,  what 
Sir  Albert  Miller  has  said  to  me  it  would  be  more  than  a 
crime,  it  would  be  a  political  fault!  " 

"  Oh,  very  well.  Be  mysterious,  by  all  means,  my  dear 
boy,  if  it  amuses  you.  As  to  your  famous  Sir  Albert,  he 
may  be  very  clever,  and  all  that,  but  his  wife  likes  cats, 
which  I  must  say  I  don't  understand,  do  you,  Pam?  Persian 
cats,  nasty  creatures  who  swallow  their  own  fur  and  have 
horrid  indigestions — as  might  be  expected."  Her  Grace 
babbled  on,  covering  her  daughter's  nervous  silence  as  well 


292  P  AM 

as  if  her  method  had  been  more  dignified,  and  a  few  minutes 
later  they  went  into  the  sitting-room  for  coffee.  Pam  leaned 
back  in  her  chair  and  watched  her  hostess  feed  Caliban  with 
bits  of  coffee-soaked  sugar,  with  a  curious  feeling  that  she 
had  taken  an  opiate,  the  effects  of  which  were  just  begin- 
ning to  wear  off. 

The  Lady  Henrietta,  on  Peek's  request,  was  playing  one 
of  Binding's  wonderful  compositions,  and  Peele,  opposite  Pam, 
sat  listening  with  folded  arms  and  closed  eyes. 

When  the  Duchess  had  dropped  asleep,  Caliban,  uncom- 
fortable but  polite,  on  her  slippery  lap,  Peele  opened  his 
eyes  and  looked  at  Pam. 

He  had  not  meant  to  see  her  again,  but  the  gods  had 
foiled  his  intention,  and  his  gaze  now  was  an  embrace. 

To  his  surprise,  however,  she  rose  and  went  to  the  piano. 
"  What  is  that  lovely  thing  ?  "  she  asked  gently. 

"  It  is  by  a  Norwegian — a  young  composer ;  do  you  like 
it?  Oh,  Jim,  you  are  really  too  rude!  I  believe  you  are 
asleep  as  well  as  mamma." 

Peele  laughed. 

"  Not  I !    I  was  listening." 

The  Lady  Henrietta  laid  her  beautiful  bare  arm  over  the 
young  girl's  shoulders.  "  Let  us  go  out  into  the  balcony, 
dear,"  she  said.  "  There's  a  man  who  comes  every  night 
and  sings  in  the  street ;  he'll  be  coming  soon.  A  good  voice, 
you  know,  though,  of  course,  untrained." 

They  sat  down  in  the  tiny  enclosure,  and  Peele,  who  had 
followed  them,  leaned  against  the  stone  balustrade.  "  May 
I  smoke,  Henrietta?  Glorious  evening,"  he  went  on,  tak- 
ing a  flat  gold  box  from  his  pocket,  and  selecting  a  cigarette 
from  it.  "  Look  at  the  moon.  A  real  Arcadian  night !  " 

Pam  did  not  move.     She  was  not  looking  at  him. 

"Arcadia?"  repeated  the  elder  woman  thoughtfully. 
"  Yes,  there  must  always  have  been  a  moon  there." 


P  A  M  293 

"  Except  in  the  daytime,"  laughed  Pam.  "  And  personally 
I  think  I  like  stars  better  than  the  moon." 

"  Do  you?  Do  you  know,  Pam,  I've  never  seen  the  sun 
rise,  and  perhaps  for  that  very  reason  I  always  have  had  a 
feeling  that  while  it  lasts  it  must  be  the  most  beautiful  thing 
in  the  twenty-four  hours." 

"  Have  you  really  never  seen  the  sun  rise,  Lady  Henrietta? 
Yes,  it  is  very  beautiful." 

Pam  gazed  dreamily  at  the  sea  as  she  spoke. 

Peele  frowned  as  he  watched  her.  She  had  not  looked 
at  him  once.  "  I  should  like,"  he  said,  his  scruples  and 
his  wisdom  suddenly  vanquished  by  his  longing  to  see  her  as 
he  had  seen  her  the  other  evening,  "  to  see  the  sun  rise.  I 
have  not  done  so  for  years." 

"Should  you?" 

"  Yes.     I  should  like  to  see  it  rise — in  Arcadia." 

The  girl  gave  a  little  irritated  twist  to  her  bare  shoulders. 

"Should  you,   indeed?" 

"  Yes.  And  how  should  you,  in  the  wisdom  of  your 
great  youth,  advise  me  to  set  about  doing  so?  " 

"  Really,  Mr.  Peele,  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea.  Have 
you,  Lady  Henrietta?" 

He  bit  his  lip.  He  was  not  a  vindictive  man,  but  it 
annoyed  him  exceedingly  to  have  her  treat  him  in  this 
way.  It  had  been  his  duty,  to  himself  in  the  first  place,  but 
also  to  both  his  fiancee  and  to  her,  to  plan  leaving  her,  but 
he  resented  her  taking  this  attitude  towards  him. 

"  I  fear,"  he  said,  tossing  away  the  end  of  his  cigarette, 
"  that  I  am  too  old  both  for  Arcadia  and  for — sunrises.  At 
my  age  one  dreams  of  such  things>  and  then — wakes  up !  " 

The  girl  started  as  if  he  had  struck  her,  and  then,  her 
quick  intellect  detecting  the  puerility  of  his  revenge,  she 
laughed.  "  I  daresay,"  she  answered  good-humouredly; 
"  every  age  has  its  pleasures."  As  she  spoke  the  musician 


294  P  A  M 

in  the  shadowy  street  below  began  to  tune  his  guitar,  and 
as  the  chinking,  twanging  accompaniment  commenced  Pam 
leaned  back  so  that  no  one  could  see  her  face.  She  could 
bear  no  more. 

" '  Lisa,  Lisetta, 

O  iienti  a  me! ' ' 

the  singer's  voice  rose  through  the  sweet  night  air. 

'"Lisa,  Lisetf, 

'Se'il  cuor1  di  mi  cuor1 1" 


CHAPTER  IV 


AS  the  slow  hours  passed,  the  moonlight  creeping  slowly 
across  the  oiled  brick  floor  and  moving  over  the  painted 
walls,  Pam  lay  in  her  bed  righting  her  fight. 

In  her  eighteen  and  a  half  years  of  life  no  one  except 
poor  Mr.  Cunningham  had  ever  attempted  to  implant  in 
her  mind  one  seed  of  conventional  honour  or  unselfishness. 
She  had  been  taught  to  say  certain  prayers,  but  not  to  pray ; 
her  mother  had  occasionally  told  her  that  it  was  wrong  and 
unladylike  to  lie,  but  the  beauty  of  abstract  truth  had  never 
been  pointed  out  to  her;  she  had  been  told  of  a  God  who 
lived  in  the  sky  and  who  was  omnipotent;  of  His  Son,  a 
man  named  Christ,  who  was  born  in  a  cow-shed  and  died 
on  a  cross,  but  of  their  majesty  and  mercy,  nothing. 

That  she  did  not  lie  was  because  her  nature  was  not 
ignoble;  she  had  the  habit  of  telling  the  truth,  without 
reasoning,  without  effort;  but  she  had  also  the  habit  of 
always,  so  far  as  lay  in  her  power,  doing  whatever  she  wished 
to  do,  and  her  belief  in  her  own  will  came  very  near  to  being 
her  religion. 

And  now,  that  summer  night,  she  fought  her  fight,  armed 
with  the  insufficient  weapons  that  were  in  her  poor  little 
armoury.  There  was  in  her  heart  no  blame  for  Peele.  The 
memory  of  the  long,  warm  days  when  he  had  been  ill  and 
they  had  been  so  happy  together  prevented  her  from  seeing 
him  with  all  the  clearness  that  was  in  her  eyes  for  other 
people. 

If  any  one  had  done  wrong  it  had  been  she  herself. 

295 


296  P  A  M 

Even  then,  at  Torpington,  when  she  had  rubbed  his  fore- 
head with  eau  de  cologne  and  scolded  him  for  his  careless- 
ness regarding  his  health — even  then  he  had  been  engaged, 
and  she  had  known  it! 

"  I  should  have  kept  away  from  him,"  she  told  herself 
with  fierce  misery.  "  How  could  I  go  to  his  house  as  I 
did?  Oh,  I  was  a  fool,  a  fool!" 

It  was  a  wretched  night,  and  when  the  clock  outside  her 
door  struck  four  her  decision  was  but  just  made. 

Lighting  a  candle  she  pattered  over  the  cold  floor  to  her 
little  secretaire  and,  after  finding  a  sheet  of  square  note- 
paper  and  an  oblong  envelope,  she  went  back  to  bed  and  sat, 
huddled  in  the  bed-clothes,  the  candle  close  at  her  elbow, 
scribbling  rapidly  with  a  blunt  pencil,  which  required  a  good 
deal  of  licking  to  make  it  write,  until  the  clock  had  struck 
another  quarter. 

She  folded  her  letter,  addressed  the  envelope,  and  then, 
blowing  out  her  light,  said  aloud :  "  Now,  that's  done ! 
And  it  is  day." 

The  daylight  was  coming  in  at  the  curtained  windows 
and  the  one  that  was  open  showed  a  square  of  almost  amber- 
coloured  sky. 

"  The  sun  is  going  to  rise !  "  the  girl  exclaimed  aloud,  her 
small  face  wan  in  the  light.  "  Sunrise  in  Arcadia!  " 

Rising,  she  thrust  her  bare  feet  into  a  pair  of  slippers 
and,  wrapping  herself  in  a  dressing-gown,  stole  quietly  down 
the  corridor  to  Pilgrim's  room. 

That  excellent  woman  was  snoring  as  her  young  mistress 
entered,  but  a  vigorous  shake  wakened  her. 

"  Pilly !  wake  up,  Pilly,  you  old  sluggard !  " 

"  Pam — Miss  Pam — oh,  dear  me,  what  is  the  matter?  " 

"  Nothing  is  the  matter.  Only  you  and  I  are  going  to 
Paris  this  morning,  so  it's  time  to  get  up." 

"To  Paris!" 


P  A  M  297 

Pilgrim  sat  up  and  blinked  wildly  in  her  endeavour  to 
seize  the  situation. 

"  Yes,  to  Paris.  And  then  in  a  few  days  we're  going  on 
to  your  beloved  Monks'  Yeoland.  Come,  hurry!  Put  on 
the  garb  of  sobriety  and  abstinence,  and  your  hair,  and  we'll 
pack." 

"  Pack!  As  if  I'd  trust  you  to  pack  your  own  boots!  I 
must  say,  Miss  Pam,  that  I  don't  see  why  we  can't  wait  until 
next  week,  as  we  'ad  intended.  What  will  Mrs.  Sacheverel 
say?" 

"Mrs.  Sacheverel  will  say:  'Pam  can  do  no  wrong.' 
So  hurry,  there's  a  good  old  crosspatch !  " 

The  young  girl  went  slowly  back  to  her  own  room  and, 
sitting  down  on  her  bed,  gave  herself  up  to  thought.  She 
was  still  deep  in  her  reverie  when  the  clock's  striking  three- 
quarters  aroused  her,  and,  springing  up,  she  went  to  the  first 
of  her  darkened  windows  and,  jerking  back  the  curtains, 
thrust  the  blinds  away.  It  was  a  splendid  morning,  crystal- 
clear  and  fresh.  The  roses  that  clambered  up  the  side  of 
the  house  hung  sweet  and  dewy  in  the  early  air.  As  she 
leaned  out,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  one  of  the  rose-sprays 
struck  her  cheek,  sprinkling  her  with  dew. 

Smiling,  she  broke  off  a  great  soft  bud  and  sniffed  at  it. 
To-morrow  she  would  be  in  Paris! 

And  then  suddenly  her  eyes  fell  on  a  man  who  was  coming 
up  the  slope  towards  the  house.  It  was  Peele. 

He  walked  slowly,  almost  irresolutely,  and  his  shoulders 
drooped  as  if  with  great  fatigue. 

Pam  watched  him  with  a  rush  of  her  old  absurdly 
maternal  feeling.  He  looked  ill,  and 

She  quite  forgot  that  she,  in  her  dressing-gown,  was  as 
visible  to  him  as  was  he  to  her,  and  when  at  length  he  looked 
up  and  called  her  name  she  started  back  as  if  she  had  but 
just  perceived  him. 


298  P  A  M 

"  Pam." 

Tossing  the  rose  down  to  him  as  an  answer,  she  retired 
from  the  window  and,  dressing  hurriedly,  went  downstairs 
and  out  into  the  morning. 

She  found  him  sitting  on  the  balustrade  near  which  they 
had  supped  a  few  evenings  before,  his  grey  hair,  ruffled  and 
untidy,  glistening  in  the  light  of  the  rising  sun. 

As  she  approached  he  rose  and  came  a  few  steps  towards 
her. 

"Pam!" 

"Yes?" 

"  Little  wretch ! — little  goose ! — why  did  you  treat  me  so 
abominably  last  night  ?  " 

She  paused  a  few  paces  away  from  him  and,  bidding  him 
with  a  gesture  to  come  no  nearer,  looked  at  him. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Peele,  you  are  ill !  Good  heavens,  how  you 
look!" 

"  Nonsense!  I  am  not  ill.  This — this  early  light  is  not 
becoming.  Pam,  I  didn't  mean  to  come,  but  I  couldn't 
help  it." 

"  But — I  know,  I  understand.  Don't  try  to  explain. 
Listen !  now  that  you  are  here,  let's  go  up  to  the  '  Belvedere  ' 
and  watch  the  sunrise." 

He  put  on  his  hat  and,  crossing  the  lawn,  they  went  in 
silence  up  through  the  trees  to  the  little  temple-like  building 
at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  sat  down  facing  the  east. 

"  It  is  more  beautiful  than  the  sunset,"  Peele  said  at 
last. 

Pam  nodded.  "  Yes,  Lady  Henrietta  was  right.  Mr. 
Peele,"  she  went  on  hurriedly,  "  here  is  a  letter  I  have  writ- 
ten to  you.  Will  you  read  it  ?  " 

He  took  the  envelope  and  turned  it  over  in  his  hands. 

"  I  have  a  letter  for  you  too,  Pam ;  a  letter  to  post  which 
I  left  the  hotel  two  hours  ago.  I  didn't  post  i*." 


P  A  M  299 

"  Give  it  to  me." 

Crossing  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  pavilion,  she  turned 
her  face  away  from  him  and  read  what  he  had  written. 

"  MY  DEAR  PAM  :  I  think,  judging  from  the  way  in 
which  you  treated  me  last  night,  that  you  understand  that 
there  is  nothing  for  us  to  do  but  say  good-bye.  I  have 
walked  up  and  down  for  hours  thinking,  but  there  is  no 
other  way.  I  am  engaged,  and  I  have  no  excuse  for  breaking 
my  word. 

"  So  I  shall  go  away  to-morrow  morning,  and  we  will 
never  meet  again.  Dear,  we  had  our  one  evening  in  Arcadia : 
many  people  have  less  than  that.  God  bless  you.  "  J.  P." 

She  read  this  through  twice,  very  slowly,  and  then,  seeing 
that  he  had  dropped  her  note  and  sat  staring  vacantly  before 
him,  she  said  with  a  short  laugh:  "  It  would  have  its  funny 
side  if  we  had,  each  of  us  fleeing  from  the  other,  both  taken 
the  10.30  express!  " 

"  Oh,  very  funny,  Pam !  Do  you  know  that  you  are  the 
most  absurdly  illogical  woman  in  the  world  ?  " 

"No.     Why  am  I?" 

"  Because "  He  picked  up  the  paper  he  had  let  fall  and, 

turning  it  over,  read  slowly  aloud :  "  '  In  two  words,  I  have 
no  right  to  you,  and  she  has.'  Now,  just  for  the  sake  of 
argument,  what  difference  does  that  right  of  hers  make  to 
you?  You  have  always  insisted  that  every  one  has  a  right 
to  take  what  he  can  get — that  the  weaker  must  go  to  the 
wall,  that  concentration  and  a  strong  will  are  the  greatest 
powers  in  the  world " 

"  I  know.     I  always  believed  it." 

"  And  your  own  mother  did  not  hesitate  to — take  anothei 
woman's  husband,  yet  you  have  never  seemed  to  blame 
her." 


300  P  A  M 

"  No ;  I  have  never  blamed  her." 

"  Then  how,"  he  went  on  with  increasing  irritation, 
rising  and  coming  to  where  she  stood,  "  how  in  the  name  of 
goodness  could  you  write  me  such  a  letter?  " 

"  It  is  a  good  letter." 

"  It  is  a  fool  of  a  letter.  Either  you  love  me  or  you 
don't,  and  if  you  do,  which  I  begin  to  doubt,  what  do  you 
mean  by  all  this  stuff?  " 

Her  mouth  twitched  with  irrepressible  amusement  as  she 
reached  forward  and  took  the  offending  missive  from  his 
hand. 

"  Sit  down,  then,  and  let  me  read  it  to  you.  And  don't 
interrupt  me,  please. 

" '  DEAR  MR.  PEELE  :  I  cannot  imagine  how  I  could 
have,  until  last  night,  utterly  forgotten  Lady  Henrietta.  I 
did  forget  her,  however,  I  suppose  because  I  have  a  way 
of  forgetting  other  people  and  their  rights  when  I  am 
concerned.'  " 

The  smile  left  her  lips  as  she  read  on,  and  her  voice 
deepened. 

"  '  You  said,  just  before  you  left  me  in  the  olive  grove, 
that  you  would  go  away  and  never  see  me  again,  but  when 
I  found  that  we  loved  each  other  I  forgot  that  you  had 
said  that.  Then,  when  the  Duchess's  note  came,  I  stupidly 
thought  that  it  must  have  been  suggested  by  you.  Even 
then,  in  thinking  of  Lady  Henrietta,  I  was  only  sorry  for 
her. 

"  '  But  when  I  saw  her,  then  I  felt  that  perhaps,  after  all, 
I  should  have  to  be  sorry  for  myself.  And  I  am  sorry  for 
myself.  I  am  also  sorry  for  you,  for  I  know  that  you  will 
care,  at  least  at  first ;  but,  in  a  word,  I  have  no  right  to  you, 
and  she  has.  All  night  I  have  been  thinking  and  thinking, 


P  A  M  301 

and  now  I  have  decided  that  we  must  not  meet  again.  To 
make  this  easier,  I  shall  go  away  to-morrow.  You  yourself 
will  know  that  this  is  best  for  all  three  of  us,  and  will  un- 
derstand. And  now,  at  first,  it  is  easy  to  separate,  that  is, 
easier.  If  we  go  floundering  in  a  morass  of  woe  it  would 
be  awfully  bad  for  you,  as  well  as  awfully  hard  for  us 
both. 

"  '  Mind,  I  am  not  saying  that  I  feel  exactly  cheery  just 
now,  but  tout  lasse,  tout  passe!  So  good-bye,  and  God 
bless  you.  '  PAM/  " 

"  Now  that,"  she  added  gaily  as  she  finished,  "  is  what  I 
call  a  most  admirable  epistle!  " 

"  Do  you  indeed !  And  you  would  actually  have  sneaked 
off  without  saying  good-bye  to  me?  And  tout  passe, 
does  it?" 

He  rose  and  walked  nervously  up  and  down. 

"  The  truth  is,  my  dear  child,  that  you  are  no  more  in 
love  with  me  than  you  are  with — the  Cham  of  Tartary." 

"Am  I  not?  But  then  you  have  no  means  of  gauging 

my  feelings  for  that  potentate Oh,  Mr.  Peele,  don't 

look  at  me  like  that!  I  can't  bear  it!  " 

Catching  his  arm  in  both  her  hands,  she  turned  to  him 
her  eyes  full  of  tragedy.  "  You  have  no  right  to  say  that  I 
don't  care!  Isn't  it  hard  enough  to  bear  without  that?  " 

"Is  it  hard  to  bear,  Pam?"  he  asked,  suddenly  gentle. 
"  Dear,  I  wonder  whether  we  are  going  to  be  able  to 
bear  it?" 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes !  Listen !  Admit  that  it  would  almost  ruin 
you  to — break  your  engagement." 

"  In  a  way  it  would." 

"  And  admit  that  you  love  your  career  even  more  than 
you  do  me." 

He  was  silent.    "  I  love  my  career  very  dearly ' 


302  h  A  M 

"  Hush !  don't  weaken.  It — your  career — will  never  get 
old  and  wrinkled ;  it  will  never  be  ill ;  it  will  never  contradict 
and  torment  you.  And  I  should  do  all  these  things.  All 
this,  to  say  nothing  of  hurting  her  so  terribly." 

"  But  why  should  you  mind  hurting  her?  As  I  said 
a  moment  ago,  you  have  never  blamed  your  mother  for  doing 
what  she  did — and  what  she  did  was  much  more  than  what 
you  might  do." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  while  the  girl's  eyes,  sombre 
with  thought,  were  turned  to  the  sparkling  sea. 

At  last  she  said,  with  a  little  frown  of  concentration,  and 
speaking  very  slowly:  "  I'll  tell  you  the  honest  truth.  You 
are  perfectly  right  in  saying  that  I  am  illogical.  If  any  one 
had  put  the  case  before  me  a  week  ago  I  should  have  said 
without  hesitating  that  I'd  let  you  break  your  engagement. 
I'd  have  said  that  as  long  as  we  wanted  each  other  we  ought 
to  have  each  other.  It  would  have  seemed  to  me  perfectly 
natural.  But  now,  somehow — perhaps  because  I  know  Lady 
Henrietta,  and  because  I  know  that  she  loves  you  as  much  as 
I  do — I  simply  can't  do  it." 

"  You  have  taken  it  all  in  your  own  hands,  I  observe ! 
You  leave  nothing  for  me  but  passive  obedience." 

"You  have  taken  your  own  steps!  Here  is  your  letter! 
Surely  you  have  no  right  to  scold  me  because  we  agree  so 
perfectly!" 

Throwing  back  his  head  with  a  little  characteristic  shake, 
he  held  out  his  hand  to  her. 

"You  are  right.  I  am  a  fool.  But — I  love  you,  and 
men  are  less  patient  than  women.  Tell  me  once  more  that 
you  love  me,  and  I  will  go." 

The  colour  faded  from  her  face,  but  she  gave  him  her 
hand.  "  I  do  love  you — oh,  I  do!" 

"  You  said  I  could  never  come  to  Arcadia,  but — I  broke 
my  way  through  the  hedge,  and  the  thorns  have  hurt  me." 


P  A  M  303 

She  stood  motionless,  her  face  hidden  against  his  breast. 

"  Pam,  you  are  a  very  good  woman.  I  am  not  a  very  good 
man,  but  I  love  you  better  for  this." 

She  withdrew  herself  gently  from  his  arms,  and,  leaving 
the  pavilion,  walked  to  the  nearest  tree  and  picked  a  little 
purple  flower  that  grew  at  its  roots. 

"  There !  "  she  said  with  a  wan  smile  as  she  came  back. 
And,  giving  him  the  flower:  "  Here  is  the  Grand  Order  of 
the  Knights  Commander  of  Arcadia!  Please  keep  it.  And 
now — I  will  go  down  by  the  path.  Good-bye." 

"  Pam,  we  have  been  very  honourable,  very  reasonable. 
Cannot  we  have,  out  of  all  the  days  to  come,  just  this  one 
day?" 

"  How  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  mean,  let  me  stay  with  you  until  this  evening.  Then 
I  will  go,  and  never  come  back.  But  I  don't  think  the  gods 
could  begrudge  us  just  the  one  day  together!" 

"  It  will  be  harder  then,"  she  protested  faintly. 

"  No,  no ;  it  will  be  easier,  and  we  can  have  it  to  remember, 
dear!  We  both  know  that  it  can't  last;  we  are  sternly 
practical  as  well  as  rigidly  honourable  people!  We  know 
that  it  would  ruin  my  career  as  well  as  hurt  our  consciences ! 
Pam,  let  us  have  one  day!  " 

She  burst  into  a  soft,  tremulous  laugh. 

"  Yes,  we  will  have  one  day !  Come,  let's  forget  every- 
thing outside  of  Arcadia,  and  be  happy — oh,  let's  be  happy !  " 

Hand  in  hand  they  went  down  the  hill. 


CHAPTER  V 


AS  Pam  knocked,  Pilgrim  opened  her  door  and  appeared, 
an  austere  vision  in  a  black  petticoat  and  stone-coloured 
stays. 

"  I've  got  the  big  black  box  packed,  and  will  do  the 
other  one  after  breakfast,"  she  began,  with  an  aspect  of 
chastened  disapproval.  "  I  suppose  you'll  wear  your  grey 
travelling-gown?  " 

"  There's  no  hurry,  Pilgrim,"  returned  the  girl  coolly. 
"  We  aren't  going  until  to-morrow !  " 

"Until  to-morrow!  To-morrow!"  Pilgrim  almost 
screamed  in  her  indignant  surprise.  "  If  we  aren't  going 
until  to-morrow  I  must  say  that  I  think  it  was  cruel  to  get  a 
woman  of  my  age  up  at  such  an  hour  to-day." 

"  I  haven't  the  remotest  idea  how  old  you  are,  Pilly  dear, 
but  I  am  sorry.  However,  I  thought  that  we  were  going 
to-day,  and  have  changed  my  mind.  Now  just  put  on  your 
dress,  will  you,  and  go  and  wake  such  slaves  as  are  necessary 
for  the  preparation  of  a  delicious  little  brekky  for  two !  " 

"For  two?     Breakfast  for  two?" 

"  Yes.  Mr.  Peele  has  come  to  spend  the  day  with  me. 
I  hope  the  peaches  aren't  all  gone?  And  we'll  have  boiled 
eggs  and  a  nice  rasher.  Tell  the  cook  that  I  want  the  coffee 
black,  will  you?  And  good  cream.  Now  don't  waste  time 
scolding.  We  are  starved  as  it  is." 

"  I  must  say,  Miss  Pam,  as  I  don't  think ' 

But  Pam  put  her  hands  over  her  ears  and  ran  downstairs 
whistling  loudly.  "  Pilly,"  she  announced  a  moment  later 

304 


P  A  M  305 

to  her  guest,  "  is  meditating  poisoning  you.  She  is  simply 
bursting  with  disapproval." 

"Poor  Pilly!" 

"  Yes;  she  believes  herself  to  have  been  sent  into  the  world 
for  the  express  purpose  of  looking  after  me.  She  finds  me 
terribly  trying  at  times!  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  Do  you  usually  get  up  at  the  ungodly 
hour  of  5  A.  M.,  may  I  ask?  " 

"  Not  I.  I  am  like  Dr.  Johnson,  a  late  riser,  sir.  TmY 
morning,  as  it  happened,  I  had  a  visit.  Tell  me,  Mr.  Peele, 
if  I  had  not  chanced  to  see  you  from  the  window,  what 
would  you  have  done?  " 

Peele  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Sat  on  the  doorstep  for  a 
few  hours  until  I  could  ring,  I  daresay.  I  had  no  intention 
of  seeing  you.  I — I  thought  I  didn't  want  to  see  you.  I 
meant  to  merely  look  at  the  house  and  then  go  back  to  town. 
But,  nevertheless,  I  should  have  been  sitting  on  the  doorstep 
if  you  hadn't  looked  out  of  the  window." 

"  You  frightened  me,  you  looked  so  ill.  I  am  afraid  you 
are  faint  with  hunger,  too !  " 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  am  rather  hungry!  I  ate  no 
dinner  last  night,  for  obvious  reasons." 

Less  than  an  hour  later  they  sat  in  the  dining-room,  enjoy- 
ing the  very  good  breakfast  which  the  unfortunate  Pilgrim 
had  ordered  for  them. 

There  were  roses  in  a  glass  bowl  on  the  round  table,  the 
sun  shone  in  at  the  windows  and  rested  on  the  homely  beauty 
of  the  pretty  china  and  silver,  and  over  the  partakers  of  the 
breakfast  hung  the  charm  that  lies  in  a  tete-a-tete  meal  for  a 
man  and  a  woman  who  love  each  other. 

"Two  lumps  of  sugar!"  laughed  Pam.  "Oh,  what  a 
sweet-tooth !  " 

"  I  don't  take  sugar  with  my  peaches,  though,  and  you 
do." 


306  P  A  M 

"  If  you  don't  want  all  the  butter,  I'd  like  some!  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  What  a  charming  person  your  ser- 
vant is.  He  has  a  smile  like  Rosini  Filippi's !  " 

"Who  is  Rosini  Filippi?" 

"  A  very  clever  London  actress,  with  the  most  delightful 
smile  and  laugh  in  the  world." 

"  Antonio  would  be  much  pleased.  Yes,  he  is  really 
rather  a  dear.  His  beam  is  one  of  pure  joy  over  my  having 
company,"  she  went  on,  rising  and  opening  the  door  to 
admit  Caliban,  who  came  shuffling  along  after  her;  "  and  the 
knowledge  that  Pilgrim  bitterly  disapproves  naturally  lends 
an  edge  to  his  pleasure !  " 

"  I  see.     How  d'ye  do,  Caliban  ?  " 

"  This  is  his  own  particular  chair,"  Pam  explained,  putting 
the  little  beast  in  an  old  high-chair  to  which  was  fastened  a 
tray,  and  pushing  him  to  the  table.  "  It  used  to  be  mine." 

"  Did  it  really?  You  mean  that  you  used  to  sit  in  it  when 
you  were  a  baby?  " 

"  Yes.  The  varnish  is  all  scratched  off  the  tray  where 
I  used  to  pound  it  with  my  spoon." 

Peele  laid  his  hand  on  the  tray.  "  I  wish  I  had  known  you 
when  you  were  a  baby,  Pam." 

"  Do  you  ?  I  was  a  funny  brown  thing  with  huge  eyes 
and  red  hair." 

"Red?" 

"  Yes.     It  was  really  almost  red  until  I  was  four  or  five." 

"  When  you  were — say,  two — isn't  that  the  tray-pound- 
ing period  ? — I  was  a  grown  man !  " 

Pam  watched  him  for  a  second  in  sober  silence.  "  Let  us, 
to-day,"  she  began  suddenly,  "  tell  each  other  about  our- 
selves— I  mean,  so  that  we  can  think  about  each  other.  Tell 
me  about  when  you  were  a  little  boy.  I  remember  the  pic- 
tures you  showed  me,  taken  when  you  were  six,  and  how  we 
shouted  over  your  funny  clothes  and  your  roller-curl !  But, 


P  A  M  307 

I  mean,  let's  tell  each  other  about  what  we  did  when  we  were 
children,  and  so  on." 

"  I  didn't  do  anything,"  he  began  helplessly.  "  I  had  a 
pony  I  used  to  ride  and  an  old  tortoise  in  the  garden " 

"  What  was  the  pony's  name  ?  " 

"  Brown  Bob." 

"Well,  go  on.  Did  you  have  a  governess?  Whom  did 
you  play  with?  "  she  urged  impatiently. 

"  I  had  a  million  governesses,  one  after  the  other.  They 
all  hated  me — I  wasn't  a  pleasant  child." 

"  But  you  had  no  mother!  Pigs!  what  did  they  expect? 
And  with  whom  did  you  play  ?  " 

Caliban,  at  this  point,  very  much  bored,  reached  over  sud- 
denly and,  plunging  his  hand  into  Peele's  coffee,  climbed  out 
of  his  chair  and  flew  to  Pam,  chattering  distractedly  for 
sympathy. 

"  It  isn't  burnt  a  bit,  you  fraud,"  she  said  sternly,  exam- 
ining the  little  member  in  question.  "  Lick  it — it's  nice  and 
sweet.  Mr.  Peele  takes  two  lumps  of  sugar !  Another  cup, 
Antonio.  I  have  an  idea,"  she  added  as  the  servant  with- 
drew. "  I  think  I'll  give  you  Cally  as  a  souvenir." 

"  I'd  rather  have  Pilly." 

"  She  wouldn't  go  with  you.  She  disapproves  of  you, 
barrel  and  stock,  root  and  branch." 

They  finished  their  breakfast  gaily,  comparing  notes  about 
each  other's  childhood,  laughing  at  the  monkey's  pranks,  and 
studiously  ignoring  any  reference  to  the  future. 

Then  they  rose  from  the  table  and,  without  any  discussion 
of  the  subject,  went  down  into  the  olive  grove, 

It  was  delightfully  cool  there,  as  yet,  and  the  glimpses  of 
the  bright  sea,  with  its  hot  glitter,  were  charming  through 
the  trees. 

"What  are  you  making?"  Peele  asked  lazily  from  the 
grass  on  which  he  had  thrown  himself  at  her  feet. 


308  P  AM 

"  A  garland — a  wreath,"  she  answered,  her  small  brown 
fingers  busily  twisting  and  turning  the  leaves  she  had  gath- 
ered on  her  way  across  the  terrace.  "  The  peasants  here 
make  them.  Shall  I  crown  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  too  old,  Pam.  Green  leaves  don't  suit  grey  hair," 
he  said  a  little  sadly. 

She  laughed.     "You  old!" 

"  Yes,  I  might  have  been  your  father." 

"  Do  you  remember,"  she  asked,  her  hands  quiet  for  a 
moment  among  the  glossy  leaves,  "  my  inventing  a  mother 
for  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  have  been  lonely  ever  since." 

"  And  do  you  remember  making  me  promise  not  to  '  run 
away  with  some  fellow  or  do  anything  like  that '  without 
first  telling  you  ?  " 

"  I  remember  it  all,  Pam.  Every  bit  of  it.  I  thought  I 
had  forgotten,  but  I  see  I  had  not.  Your  little  blue  skirt, 
your  sailor  hat,  your  duck  shirts  with  the  turquoise 
buttons " 

"  And  your  yellow  slippers !  And  the  tea-pot  with  the 
big  nick  in  it !  And  the  quince  jam !  " 

He  nodded.  "  Do  you  remember  how  you  used  to  rub 
my  head  with  eau  de  cologne  when  I  had  those  beastly 
headaches  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  wonder "  She  broke  off  short,  frowning 

thoughtfully. 

"  Go  on.     What  do  you  wonder?  " 

"  Whether — it  didn't  all  begin  then" 

He  knew  what  she  meant,  and  paused  for  a  moment  before 
answering. 

"  I  hardly  think  so ;  you  were  a  child." 

"  I  know,  and  yet — it  isn't  as  if  I  were  a  beauty — you 
couldn't  very  well  have — cared  for  me  at  once,  the  other 
evening,  unless  we  had  known  each  other  before." 


P  A  M  309 

"  Perhaps  not.     Pam,  do  you  wish  I  had  not  come  ?  " 

She  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  full  into  his.  "  No,"  she 
said  slowly. 

"  If  I  hadn't,  you  would  have  been  happier." 

"  I'm  glad  you  came.     Are  you  sorry?  " 

"  I  think  that  I  am.     Yes,  I  wish  I  had  not  come." 

"  That  is,  of  course,  individual.  I  am  glad.  Now  my 
garland  is  done.  Come  and  let  me  try  it  on." 

Antonio,  who  understood  a  great  deal  of  English,  although 
he  could  not  speak  it  at  all,  was  disappointed  in  Peek,  as  he 
served  luncheon  a  few  hours  later. 

"  Love,"  he  observed  to  the  inimical  Pilgrim,  whose  un- 
necessary presence  in  the  kitchen  was  perhaps  not  wholly 
accidental,  "  is  queer  ting,  isn't  it?  " 

Pilgrim  sniffed  indignantly. 

"There  is  the  signore — the  signore  of  the  signorina! — he 
is  not  so  old,  in  spite  of  his  hair,  and  he  adores  the  signorina, 
yet  what  do  they  talk  of?  Politics!  And  every  one  knows 
how  corrupt  English  politics  are,  and  how  dull!  I  suppose 
the  signore  is  a  senator,  Miss  Pilgrim  ?  " 

"  We  don't  'ave  senators  in  England ! "  snapped  that 
excellent  creature,  with  the  natural  disdain  of  a  British 
female  for  a  mere  Italian.  "  And  why  shouldn't  they  talk 
politics?  Thank  God,  they  do!  "  she  added  in  an  undertone. 

Whereupon  Antonio,  who  had  heard  her  last  words,  and 
who  was  in  his  way  a  humorist,  winked  at  the  cook. 


CHAPTER  VI 


**WlLL  you  go  with  me  to  the  Villa  below,  to  look  for 
some  things  that  I  have  to  send  to  Paris  ?  " 

"Is  there  any  place  whither  I  will  not  go  with  you?" 
returned  Peele  gravely. 

It  was  four  o'clock,  and  the  two  stood  by  tfie  window  in 
the  cool  drawing-room,  looking  out  into  the  sunny  garden. 

Ever  since  luncheon  they  had  been  in  the  house,  for  the 
day  had  grown  to  be  very  warm,  and  Pam  had,  as  was  her 
custom,  arranged  in  the  myriad  vases  the  flowers  brought 
in  to  her  from  the  little  hothouse  in  the  kitchen-garden. 

They  had  opened  the  piano,  too,  on  which  Pam  knew  not 
one  note  from  another,  and  Peele  had  played  for  her  all  he 
could  recall  of  a  "  piece  "  called  "  The  Waterfall,"  taught 
him  years  ago  by  one  of  his  governesses. 

"  She  had  red  shiny  hands,"  he  said,  "  with  a  wart  on  her 
left  third  finger.  Her  name  was  Bunce,  and  her  father  had 
been  a  dean.  How  I  hated  her!  " 

"  You  must  have  been  a  horrid  little  boy!  " 

"  I  had  no  mother,"  he  retorted  gravely,  using  her  own 
words.  It  had  been  a  charming  afternoon  altogether.  They 
had  asked  each  other  all  sorts  of  questions,  the  answers  to 
which,  Pam  said  with  a  little  laugh,  would  make  a  part  of 
the  great  memory. 

She  learned  that  he  hated  poetry,  and  that  when  he  read 
for  his  pleasure  it  was  chiefly  historical  biography.  He 
cared  nothing  for  science,  or  for  classical  music;  he  loved 
pictures,  however.  His  favourite  picture  was  Luke  Fildes* 

310 


P  A  M  31 

"  The  Doctor,"  which  she  had  never  seen,  and  which  he  de- 
scribed to  her  at  length. 

"  The  man's  face,"  he  said,  "  is  wonderful ;  such  a  mixture 
of  pity,  tenderness,  and  resignation  to  the  limitations  of  his 
own  powers.  You  must  go  and  see  it  some  time." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  shall  go." 

He  had  not  kissed  her,  he  had  hardly  touched  her  hand, 
but  they  had  in  the  concentration  of  their  minds  been  won- 
derfully close  to  each  other. 

"  Do  you  recite  now?  "  he  asked  once. 

"  How  do  you  know  I  ever  recited  ?  " 

"  The  Duchess  told  me." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  recite  sometimes,  but  I  don't  care  for  it  as 
much  as  I  used  to.  When  I  was  very  little  I  used  to  know 
a  lot  of  Italian  poems  by  heart,  but  I  am  too  old  for  them 
now.  And  English  poetry  is  not  musical — except  Keats, 
who  is  not  dramatic — and  Herrick." 

"  Recite  something  to  me  now,  Pam,  one  of  your  favourite 
things."  And  when  she  began,  standing  with  lightly  clasped 
fingers  before  him,  he  knew  that  she  had  made  this  choice 
because  it  held  no  emotions: 

"  I  sing  of  Brooks,  of  Blossoms,  Birds  and  Bowers ; 
Of  April,  May,  of  June  and  July  flowers. 
I  sing  of  May-poles,  Hock-carts,  Wassails,  Wakes, 
Of  Bridegrooms,  Birds,  and  of  their  Bridall-cakes. 

"  Aren't  the  words  all  lovely?  "  she  broke  off.  "  It  is  the 
liquid  1's  that  make  Italian  so  musical  too.  Listen ! 

"  I  sing  of  Dewes,  of  Raines,  and  piece  by  piece 
Of  Balme,   of  Oyle,  of  Spice  and  Amber-greece. 
I  sing  of  Times  trans-shifting;  and  I  write 
How  Roses  first  came  red,  and  Lillies  white. 
I  write  of  Groves,  of  Twilights,  and  I  sing 
The   Court  of   Mab   and   of   the   Fairie-King. 
I  write  of  Hell;  I  sing  (and  ever  shall) 
Of  Heaven,  and  hope  to  have  it  after  all !  " 


312  P  A  M 

"The  Court  of  Mab  and  ot  the  Fairie  King!  You  are 
almost  small  enough  to  be  Queen  Mab,  but  you  are  too 
brown !  " 

"  Queen  Mab  was  no  bigger  than  my  thumb!  Do  you 
like  the  poem?  " 

"I  do.  And  I  envy  the  writer  because,  though  he  wrote 
of  Hell,  he  hoped  for  Heaven  after  all." 

There  was  a  short  pause,  and  then  suddenly  she  changed 
the  subject  by  asking  him  to  go  to  the  Villa  Vaucourt  with 
her. 

"  I  had  a  note  from  Madame  de  Vaucourt  yesterday,  ask- 
ing me  to  look  up  one  or  two  things  that  she  forgot,"  she 
continued  a  few  moments  later  as  they  went  down  the  path, 
the  sun  shining  on  her  hair  and  making  it  almost  copper- 
coloured. 

"  The  farmer's  wife  airs  the  villa,  and  so  on,  and  I've  had 
her  open  the  blinds."  She  swung  the  key  on  one  finger  as 
she  spoke. 

"  Friends  of  yours,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Obviously !  They  used  to  live  here  every  winter,  and 
we  knew  them  very  well,  but  for  the  last  two  or  three  years 
they  have  not  stayed  long,  and  now —  They  had  turned 

to  the  right  and  come  into  a  domain  much  more  pretentious 
than  the  one  above,  Peele  noticed ;  the  well-gravelled  paths 
were  broad,  and  the  flower-beds  in  front  of  the  house  laid 
out  with  some  skill. 

"  I  feel  like  Marat  or  Danton,  or  some  one  of  those 
creatures,  making  a  visite  domiclliaire"  exclaimed  the  girl, 
fitting  the  key  into  the  lock  and  opening  the  door.  "  Brrr! 
how  musty  it  smells!  I  must  give  Margarita  a  wigging.  I 
don't  believe  the  windows  have  been  open  for  weeks." 

She  opened  a  door  to  the  right  of  the  black  and  white 
marble  entrance-hall,  and  he  followed  her  into  what,  to  his 
surprise,  he  perceived  to  be  a  furnished  drawing-room. 


P  A  M  313 

The  sun,  streaming  in,  fell  on  yellow  satin  chairs  and  sofas, 
on  inlaid  tables,  handsome  rugs,  and  a  hundred  graceful 
knickknacks,  which  gave  it  a  curiously  inhabited  air. 

"  This  looks  as  though  the  mistress  of  the  house  would 
come  down  in  a  moment  and  ask  us  what  the  deuce  we  are 
doing  here ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Not  in  the  least  like  an 
empty  house." 

"  That's  because  she  left  so  suddenly,  poor  dear ;  and  she 
had  no  heart  to  pack.  Ah,  no,  she'll  never  come  back," 
returned  the  girl,  with  a  sigh,  sitting  down  at  a  small  ormolu 
secretaire  and  opening  it. 

"Why  is  she  a  poor  dear?  And  why  won't  she  come 
back?" 

Peele  leaned  against  the  wall  and,  folding  his  arms, 
watched  her  as,  with  an  obvious  reluctance,  she  opened  the 
little  drawers  one  by  one. 

"  Because  her  husband  has  run  away  from  her,  and  because 
she  is  very  unhappy." 

"  By  Jove!     What  is  their  name,  did  you  say?  " 

"  De  Vaucourt.  Oh,  dear,  I  hate  to  look  through  these 
papers,  but  she  wants  his  letters." 

"  Vaucourt!     I  say,  Pam,  had  she  been  married  before?  " 

"  Yes,  the  first  husband  was  M.  de  Boissy,  I  think." 

Peele  frowned. 

"  Well,  upon  my  word !  Delphine  de  Boissy  a  friend 
of  yours !  " 

The  girl  turned,  the  letters  in  her  hand.  "Why  not?" 
she  asked  curiously. 

"Why,  because  she — did  your  mother  know  her?" 

"  Of  course.  Father  and  M.  de  Vaucourt  were  great 
friends." 

Peele  said  nothing  for  a  moment,  while  he  struggled  with 
his  impulse  to  curse  the  selfish  carelessness  of  Sacheverel 
and  Pauline. 


314  P  A  M 

"  So  the  fellow  married  her,"  he  said  presently,  as  Pam 
closed  the  secretaire  and  led  the  way  upstairs,  the  packet 
of  letters  in  her  hand. 

"  Yes.  And  then  about  two  months  ago  he  left  her. 
Father  said  he  behaved  like  a  brute.  She  wrote  and  wrote, 
but  he  didn't  answer  her  letters,  and  at  last  she  went  after 
him  and  found " 

"Yes,  and  found?" 

"  Found  him  living  very  comfortably  in  the  Avenue 
Kleber  with  a  young  person  whose — whose  cheeks  didn't 
bag." 

"Bag?" 

"  Yes.  Poor  Madame  de  Vaucourt's  do  bag  horribly  of 
late;  the  skin  seems  to  have  got  loose  in  a  most  unattractive 
way.  She  is  pretty  old,  you  know,  and  it  seems  to  be  only 
in  books  that  people  enjoy  growing  old  together,  like  John 
Anderson  and  his  wife,  or  Darby  and  Joan.  I  am  sure," 
she  went  on,  opening  the  blinds  of  the  room  into  which  she 
had  led  the  way,  and  looking  at  him  with  great  solemnity, 
"  that  Mrs.  Anderson's  cheeks  were  baggy,  and  that  Joan 
wore  a  snuff-coloured  front,  and  yet,  what  did  John  Ander- 
son and  Darby  care?  Not  a  pin,  the  old  dears.  But,  then, 
they  lived  in  Arcadia!  " 

"  What  an  abominable  cynic  you  are !  Do  you  really 
mean  that  you  think  real  people  never  love  each  other  all 
their  lives?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  sometimes.  Father  and  mother  will."  Her 
voice  was  very  gentle,  as  she  knelt  by  a  Venetian  wedding- 
chest  and  opened  it. 

"  And  you  explain  their  case  by  the  fact  that  they  were 
not  married  until  the  other  day!  That's  like  your  absurd 
tout  lasse,  tout  passe"  he  went  on,  with  a  sudden  irritation 
that  surprised  himself.  He  had  no  intention  of  protecting 
the  institution  of  matrimony  against  her,  but  her  attitude 


P  A  M  315 

annoyed  him  beyond  control.  "  You  really  ought  to  stop 
arguing  in  this  ridiculous  way,  Pam;  it  puts  you  in  a  very 
false  position." 

She  turned,  a  long  strip  of  yellow  lace  in  her  hands,  and 
stared  up  at  him  in  unfeigned  wonder. 

"  What  on  earth  have  I  said  ?    Why  are  you  so  cross?  " 

"  You  haven't  exactly  said  anything,  just  now,  but  I 
remember  your  old  jeremiads  against  matrimony,  and  it  has 
occurred  to  me  that  you  are  too  old  now  for  that  sort  of 
thing.  It  used  to  be  amusing,  but  it  is  both  silly  and 
unwise  now." 

She  frowned,  and  then  as  suddenly  laughed. 

"Well,  of  all  bears!  Haven't  I  a  right  to  my  own 
opinion?  " 

"  Yes,  to  an  opinion,  but  not  to  a  harmful,  wrong-headed 
prejudice.  You  have  no  right  to  rail  against  something  of 
which  you  have,  unfortunately,  seen  nothing." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  during  which  she  folded  her  lace 
without  turning  her  eyes  from  his  face. 

"  I  have  seen  more  than  you  think,"  she  said  quietly. 
"  My  grandfather  and  my  grandmother  hated  each  other ; 
my  aunt  Rosamund  is  wretched  with  Mr.  Maxse,  and  she 
bores  him  to  death;  the  Rector  at  Yeoland  and  his  wife  are 
very  polite  and  ceremonious  to  each  other,  but  they  live  in 
opposite  corners  of  the  Rectory;  then  there  was  my  father 
and  poor  Mrs.  Kennedy,  and  now  the  Vaucourts!  " 

In  its  way  her  evidence  was  overwhelming.  Her  life,  he 
saw,  had  been  such  that  in  naming  these  few  examples  of 
marital  misery  she  had  mentioned  almost  all  the  married 
couples  she  had  ever  known.  For  a  moment  Peele  was 
staggered,  and  then  he  recovered  himself.  "  Yours  has  been 
an  exceptional  as  well  as  an  unfortunate  experience,  dear," 
he  said.  "  But,  believe  me,  in  the  end  law  and  order  must 
prevail." 


316  P  A  M 

Pam  shook  her  head  gently.  "  Why  waste  time  in 
quarrelling  about  the  Kaiser's  beard  ?  " 

"  But  it  isn't  about  the  Kaiser's  beard !  It  is  of  the 
utmost  importance." 

"Not  to  me." 

As  she  spoke  she  turned  and  once  more  bent  over  the 
chest  in  which  she  was  searching. 

"  Men  will  want  to  marry  you,"  he  went  on,  with  a  pang 
of  fierce  jealousy. 

"  But  I  shall  not  want  to  marry  them.  Ah,  here  it  is — 
the  crucifix.  Poor  thing,  it  was  her  mother's."  As  she 
spoke,  the  stable  clock  struck  slowly,  and  involuntarily,  as 
they  both  counted  the  strokes,  she  turned  and  looked  at 
him,  the  ivory  crucifix  pressed  to  her  breast. 

"Five!  Pam,  the  day  will  soon  be  gone — our  day — the 
end  is  coming!  " 

"  No,  no,  not  the  end !     I  can't  bear  it !  " 

For  a  moment  they  stared  at  each  other  in  silence.  Then 
Peele  said  hoarsely:  "Nor  can  I!  Pam,  we  can't  do  it! 
God  knows  we've  tried,  but  we  can't,  and  thank  God  that 
we  can't — come!  " 

Almost  roughly  he  drew  her  to  her  feet  and  caught  her 
in  his  arm.  "  Pam,  we  have  tried,  and  failed." 

"  Yes,  we  have  failed." 

Neither  of  them  knew  how  long  it  had  been  when  he 
raised  his  head  from  hers,  and  after  a  moment's  further 
silence  she  said  suddenly  in  a  strange,  harsh  voice:  "  You 
will  not  ask  me  to  marry  you  ?  " 

"Pam!" 

"  Yes.     You  know  I  cannot  do  that." 

"You  must!" 

"  I  cannot.     Do  not  ask  me  that." 

The  turn  affairs  had  taken  was  bewildering  and  almost 
ludicrous.  That  he,  who  had  never,  until  five  minutes  ago, 


P  A  M  317 

dreamed  of  the  folly  of  marrying  her,  should  be  urging  her 
to  marry  him,  and  that  she  should  be  refusing! 

"  Jim,  I  love  you  more  than  anything  in  the  world.  I  will 
do  anything  for  you,  I  will  go  anywhere  with  you — to-mor- 
row if  you  like,  but  that  one  thing  I  cannot  do." 

Peele  set  his  teeth  and  forced  her  creeping  hands  from  his 
shoulders.  The  moment  was  a  crucial  one,  and  he  realised 
it.  Not  only  all  his  love  for  the  innocent  fool  in  his  arms, 
but  all  that  was  best  of  the  manhood  in  him,  rose  to  combat 
her  folly. 

"  Pam,  for  God's  sake  listen  to  me.  You  are  a  child, 
and  must  trust  me.  You  must  marry  me,  or  I  shall  go 
away  and  never  see  you  again." 

She  drew  away  from  him,  her  face  cold.     "  I  will  not !  " 

"  You  must.  I  should  be  the  greatest  scoundrel — don't 
make  me  afraid  of  myself." 

"  I  will  not  marry  you,"  she  answered  slowly,  and  very 
distinctly.  He  felt  that  he  had  lost  his  cause,  and  to  his 
bitter  shame  he  realised  that  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart  there 
was  a  throb  of  gladness. 

Then  suddenly  a  creeping  sensation  of  cold  sickness  came 
over  him,  and  he  put  his  hand  blindly  to  his  throat. 

"  I — fear  I  am  going  to  faint,"  he  said  slowly ;  "  don't 
be  frightened."  But  she  was  so  frightened  that  when  he 
came  to  a  few  minutes  later  her  face,  looking  old  and  worn 
in  its  agony,  was  as  white  as  his  own. 

"  Jim,  my  dearest,  I  thought,  oh,  I  thought "  Her 

eyes  filled  and  the  hot  tears  fell  on  his  cheek. 

His  heart  smote  him.  "  Pam,  you  see  your  obstinacy 
nearly  killed  me;  now  you  must  promise.  You  must  give 
up  this  mad  idea,  my  poor  child,  and  I  too  must  give  up 
much.  You  must  marry  me." 

Her  rnouth  trembled  piteously  as  she  looked  at  him 
through  her  tears.  "  !  can't,  oh,  I  can't!  Listen,  you  are 


318  P  A  M 

ill,  we  can't  discuss  it  now;  we  will  go  back  into  Arcadia 
for  our  tea,  and  when  we  are  in  England  we  can  plan 
things." 

He  sighed  and,  rising,  picked  up  his  hat.  He  was  glad 
to  quit  the  subject;  his  strength,  in  two  senses,  was  about 
gone. 

Half  dazed  he  watched  her  gather  up  the  letters,  the 
crucifix,  and  the  eider-down  shawl  she  had  found,  and 
a  few  minutes  later,  her  strong  young  shoulder  giving  him 
more  than  a  nominal  support,  they  crossed  the  boundary 
and  went  back  into  Arcadia. 


PART   VI 
CHAPTER  I 


"NOW,  Pilly,  you  are  to  go  back  into  the  hotel  and  have 
your  tea  with  Caliban.  I  am  going  to  make  a  visit." 

The  fiacre  had  stopped  in  front  of  Brentano's,  and  after 
several  minutes  Pam  had  come  out  of  the  shop,  and  now 
stood  looking  with  mild  amusement  into  her  maid's  horrified 
face. 

"A  visit!  In  Paris!  I  really  don't  think,  Miss  Pam, 
as  you  ought  to  do  such  things." 

"  Sorry,  but  I  must.    Is  my  veil  all  right  ?  " 

The  young  girl  wore  a  simple  tailor-made  gown  and  a 
very  smart  black  hat  that  she  had  bought  that  morning. 
Pilgrim,  eyeing  her  with  disapproval  of  her  acts,  could  net 
withhold  a  certain  grudging  admiration  for  her  looks. 

The  girl  was  curiously  graceful,  even  in  this  day  of  grace- 
ful women,  and  the  unusually  long  slope  of  her  erect  shoul- 
ders gave  her,  in  conjunction  with  the  alert  carriage  of  her 
small  head,  a  very  distinguished  air. 

The  day  was  one  of  those  warm,  exciting  Paris  spring 
days  when  something  delightful  seems  to  the  young  to  be 
on  the  very  point  of  happening.  Pam's  eyes  were  bright, 
her  cheeks  faintly  tinged  with  pink. 

"  Doesn't  Paris  make  you  feel  wicked,  Pilly?"  she  asked 
suddenly,  with  a  laugh  of  pure  pleasure.  "  It  does  me,  and 
it  makes  me  feel  that  wicked  things  are  really  good!  " 

Pilgrim  clasped  her  grey  cotton  hands  imploringly. 

"  Oh,  Pam,  do  take  me  with  you !  I  can  sit  in  the  hall, 

319 


320  P  A  M 

you  know,  or  even  in  the  cab.  Other  young  ladies  don't 
go  raging  about  all  alone." 

Pam  stared.  "  Raging?'  Oh,  well,  you  poor  thing, 
console  yourself,  for  I'm  not  going  to  rage.  I'm  going  to 
make  one  visit,  and  then  I  shall  come  back  to  the  hotel, 
and  you  know  we  are  going  to  the  theatre.  So  good- 
bye. Don't  worry,  Pilly.  I'll  be  as  good  as  gold,  really  I 
will." 

After  glaring  with  hatred  and  ferocity  at  a  young  man 
who,  attired  in  the  fashion  of  the  following  month,  had 
come  to  a  standstill  and  was  eyeing  Pam  with  unconcealed 
admiration,  Pilgrim  sighed  resignedly. 

"Very  well,  I've  done  my  best,  as  I  shall  tell  Mrs. 
Sacheverel.  I  hope  at  least  that  you  are  going  to  see  a 
lady." 

Pam  stared  again,  and  her  frankly  puzzled  stares  were 
very  characteristic  of  her.  "  To  see  a  lady  ?  Of  course  I 
am.  You  don't  think  I'm  going  to  see  a  gentleman,  do 
you?" 

Pilgrim  tossed  her  head.  "  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure. 
You  used  to,  last  year,  in  Torpington." 

Pam  got  into  the  shabby  vehicle  and  leaned  back  in  one 
corner.  "  Sure  enough,  so  I  did,"  she  returned  carelessly. 
"  Well,  I'm  older  now,  and  have  given  up  that  habit.  Now 
don't  get  lost,  Pilgrim — the  hotel  is  just  up  the  second 
street,  you  know.  And  don't  speak  to  any  one  you  don't 
know!" 

As  the  wretched  maid  walked  away  in  slow  dignity, 
Pam  gave  an  address  to  the  cabby,  and  moved  off  in  the 
other  direction,  still  smiling  over  her  little  joke. 

It  was  evening,  and  the  sunshine  began  to  pale;  the  air 
was  sweet  with  the  odours  that  awaken  even  in  great  cities 
when  spring  comes  down  that  way. 

The   Champs   Elysees  was  crowded   with   beautiful   car- 


P  A  M  321 

riages  filled  with  beautifully  dressed  women,  flowers  were 
for  sale  everywhere,  the  sky  was  blue,  the  trees  delicately 
green.  Pam  was  very  happy.  Only  two  days  before  she 
had  been  in  Arcadia  with  Peele,  and  now,  because  he  loved 
her  and  she  loved  him,  she  was  happy  in  Paris  without 
him. 

Before  her,  in  England,  lay  two  tasks  for  her — tasks 
which  were  bound  to  be  very  difficult,  but  at  the  thought 
of  them  her  red  mouth  tightened  and  her  brows  drew  down 
in  a  way  that  meant  confident  determination. 

The  day  in  Arcadia  had  undone  her  resolution  to  give  up 
Peele,  not  because  she  had  learned  that  she  could  not  do  it, 
but  because  some  instinct  told  her  that  it  would  hurt  him 
to  give  her  up.  The  moment  that  conviction  had  come  to 
her  her  scruples  had  melted  into  nothingness,  and  she  men- 
tally sacrificed  the  Lady  Henrietta  with  the  incidental  pity 
a  high  priest  of  old  must  have  felt  for  the  lamb  whose  throat 
he  cut  to  do  honour  to  his  god. 

And  now  there  remained  in  her  mind  but  the  one  prob- 
lem— whether  she  should  marry  Peele. 

Her  dislike  of  the  idea  of  tying  herself  for  life  was  a 
perfectly  sincere  one;  whatever  her  faults  were,  they  were 
not  those  of  a  poseuse.  The  thought  of  saying  the  words 
she  had  lately  heard  her  mother  say  was  utterly  repugnant 
to  her;  she  did  not  believe  in  the  binding  quality  of  such 
promises,  and  she  had  never  broken  her  word  in  her  life. 

Peele  had  left  her  that  evening  two  days  before,  believing 
her  unshaken  in  her  determination;  she  knew  this,  and  yet 
she  knew  that  his  words  had  not  been  without  effect.  His 
faint  had  so  terrified  her  that  it  had  required  all  her  strength 
to  persist  after  it  in  the  refusal  she  had  given  him  before  it. 

His  love  for  her  seemed  so  wonderful,  so  incomprehen- 
sible, that  she  would  have  been  glad  of  an  occasion  to  make 
some  tremendous  sacrifice  for  him;  and  yet  her  mad  ideal 


322  P  A  M 

of  absolute  freedom  had  grown  with  her  growth  and  seemed 
a  part  of  her  very  bone  and  muscle. 

When  the  fiacre  stopped,  after  ten  minutes'  easy  progress, 
before  a  charming  little  hotel  with  a  coat-of-arms  in  stone 
over  the  door,  the  girl  was  deep  in  thought  and  roused  her- 
self with  an  effort. 

The  servant  who  answered  her  ring  looked  at  her  in  some 
surprise.  "  Yes,  Madame  was  at  home,  certainly,  but  Ma- 
dame was  very  ill." 

"Just  give  her  this  card,  will  you?" 

A  moment  later  she  found  herself  standing  on  the  thresh- 
old of  a  great  bare  room,  in  the  centre  of  which  stood  a 
large  mahogany  bed  with  brocaded  curtains. 

"Pam!" 

"  Carissima!  " 

The  great  Ravaglia  held  out  her  hand  without  moving 
her  body,  and  bending  over  the  embroidered  pillows  the 
young  girl  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks. 

"You  here,  Pam!  I  cannot  believe  it!  "  the  actress  went 
on  in  Italian. 

"  No?    And  yet,  here  I  am!    but  you — you  are  ill!  " 

"  Yes,  so  ill,  that  when  I  saw  your  card  I  thought  I  was 
delirious  again." 

"  Did  you  remember  my  name  at  once?  "  Pam  sat  down 
cosily  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and  took  off  her  hat  uninvited. 
"  It  is  very  long  since  you  have  seen  me !  " 

The  sick  woman  smiled  faintly.  "  Oh,  very  long — three 
years!  Ah,  yes,  I  knew  your  name.  As  to  your  face,  you 
have  changed  very  little,  except  that  you  are  older." 

There  was  a  short  pause,  after  which  she  added  softly: 

"  I  have  never  played  Pia  since,  without  thinking  of 
you.  Do  you  remember  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  do  remember.  That  is  why  I  came.  But  tell 
me  first  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 


P  A  M  323 

Ravaglia  smiled,  her  yellow  face  wrinkling  amazingly. 
"  The  matter  ?  Nothing ;  I  am  just  dying.  Please  don't 
make  a  fuss,"  she  added,  with  sudden  fretfulness.  "  I  hate 
talking  about  it.  Tell  me  about  yourself.  Are  your  father 
and  mother  here  ?  " 

"  No." 

"You  are  not  married,  are  you?" 

"  Married !  No.  I  brought  Pilgrim  and  Caliban  with 
me." 

"  Poor  old  Pilgrim !  Who  is  Caliban  ?  Ah,  yes,  I  know 
now.  Well,  you  are  alone  in  Paris  with  a  maid  and  a 
monkey?  " 

Pam  laughed  suddenly.  "Yes,  is  it  dreadful?  How- 
ever, we  are  going  on  to  England,  to  my  grandfather's, 
to-morrow.  I  stopped  over  here  to  ask  your  advice  about 
something." 

"  My  advice !  My  dear  child,  en  voila  une  idee  assez 
rigolo!  About  what?" 

The  girl  was  silent  for  a  moment,  marshalling  her  words, 
and  then  she  spoke. 

"  You  remember  telling  me  that  somewhere  in  the  world 
there  was  a  man  whom  I  should — love?  Well,  he  has 
come." 

The  tragedienne,  whose  life,  for  all  its  triumphs,  had  been 
so  much  more  tragic  than  any  of  her  dramas,  drew  a  long 
breath. 

"You,  little  Pam?     Go  on." 

"  He  is  very  much  older  than  I ;  he  is  quite  old " 

As  she  paused  the  sick  woman  opened  her  eyes  suddenly, 
very  wide,  and  turned  her  head  sharply.  "  It  isn't  Charnley 
Burke  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Charnley  Burke  ?     Good   heavens,  no !  " 

There  was  a  short  pause,  after  which  Ravaglia  bade  the 
girl  go  on  with  her  story. 


324  P  A  M 

"  He  is  James  Peele.  I  met  him  long  ago  at  my  grand- 
father's. He  is  a  politician,  and  very  brilliant.  I  don't 
know,"  she  added,  with  real  humility,  but  a  proud  look  in 
her  eyes,  "  why  he  cares  for  me,  but  he  does." 

"  I  think  I  can  guess  why,  carina.  Well,  you  are 
engaged  ?  " 

The  last  of  the  afternoon  sun  was  coming  in  at  the  win- 
dow and  fell  full  on  Pam's  face.  Her  eyes  were,  Ravaglia 
saw  with  a  pang,  like  her  own  at  that  moment.  The  actress, 
who  was  a  Sicilian,  was  superstitious,  and  her  breath  caught 
in  her  throat  as  she  recognised  in  the  young  girl's  eyes  the 
look  that  she  believed  to  be  fateful. 

"  No,"  Pam  said  slowly,  "  he  is  engaged  to  the  Duchess 
of  Wight's  daughter." 

In  her  relief  the  elder  woman  laughed  aloud,  and  catching 
the  girl's  hand  kissed  it.  "Engaged!  Only  that!  Then 
it  is  all  right,  thank  God !  " 

Pam  looked  at  her  gravely.  "  You  mean  because  he  is 
not  married  ?  " 

"Yes.  Thank  God!  Ah!"  Her  short  cry  of  pain 
frightened  Pam  and,  slipping  from  the  bed,  she  was  about 
to  ask  if  she  could  do  nothing  to  relieve  her,  when  she  saw 
that  Ravaglia  had  fainted. 

Ringing  the  bell  hastily,  she  dipped  her  handkerchief  in 
some  water  and  laid  it  on  the  strangely  waxen-looking 
forehead,  and  when  the  maid  came  in,  and  some  drops 
had  been  administered,  the  sick  woman  at  length  opened 
her  eyes  and  tried  to  smile. 

"  I  fainted  again,  did  I  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  hope  you  weren't 
frightened,  little  Pam?" 

"  I  was,  though.  Mr.  Peele  fainted  the  other  day,  and 
now  you  do  it,  too!  It  is  awful.  I  will  go  now;  you  are 
too  tired." 

"  Yes,  I  am  too  tired,  but  you  mustn't  go.     I  haven't 


P  A  M  325 

yet  given  you  my  advice,"  the  actress  went  on,  half  play- 
fully, but  with  an  evident  effort.  "  Sit  down  and  let  me 
do  it." 

Pam  obeyed  in  silence,  and  after  a  moment  Ravaglia 
went  on. 

"  I  am  glad  for  you  that  this  man  is  not  married,  dear, 
and  the  only  thing  for  him  to  do  is  to  break  his  engage- 
ment. That  is  my  advice;  and  then  he  must  marry  you 
at  once.  I  am  glad  for  you,  but  I  am  sorry  for  poor 
Burke." 

"Burke!"  ejaculated  the  girl.  "Why  do  you  speak  of 
him?" 

"  He  is  here,  and  he  has  told  me  about  you.  He  is  a 
good  man,  as  men  go,  and  he  is  not  a  prig.  He  would  make 
an  admirable  husband." 

"  He  is  here,  you  say?    In  Paris?  " 

"Yes,  yes,  in  Paris;  why  shouldn't  he  be  in  Paris?  He 
comes  often  to  see  me,  and  we  talk  of  you.  He  loves  you 
very  dearly,  Pam." 

"  I  know.  I  wish  he  didn't.  Do  you  happen  to  know 
whether  he  is  going  down  to  Monks'  Yeoland  soon?  I  am, 
and  I  do  hope  he  isn't." 

"  He  is  not.  He  was  going  south  to-morrow — to  see 
you.  He  has  your  father's  permission,  and  I  think,  if  you 
say  no,  he  will  go  back  to  Australia." 

"If  I  say  no!" 

"  Ah,  I  understand ;  you  think  that  only  your  Mr. — 
Peele  exists,  dear  child,  but  Burke  will  go  on  existing 
nevertheless.  Pam,"  she  went  on  hurriedly,  catching  the 
girl's  hands  and  holding  them  in  a  hot,  nervous  clasp,  "  I 
am  glad  you  came!  You  should  not  have  come,  and  no 
one  must  know  that  you  did,  but  I  am  glad.  I  have  so 
longed  to  see  you;  I  have  thought  so  much  of  you.  Did 
they  tell  you  that  my  little  girl  died  ?  " 


326  P  A  M 

"No!" 

"  Yes,  she  died.  If  I  had  but  known  that  she  had  no 
future  I  might  have  kept  her  with  me,  and  how  I  would 
have  loved  her.  Ah,  they  might  have  let  me  know,  they 
might  have  let  me  know!  " 

As  she  finished  speaking  she  burst  into  a  fit  of  crying  that 
shook  her  whole  body,  her  thin  hands  clasped  tight  over  her 
face. 

Pam  knelt  by  her  in  mute  sympathy,  her  own  eyes  full 
of  tears.  After  a  few  minutes  Ravaglia  became  quiet,  and 
lay  with  half-closed  eyes  in  a  state  of  exhaustion.  Pam 
watched  her  for  some  time,  and  then  rose.  She  could  not 
go  on  with  her  story;  the  woman  was  too  ill  to  be  troubled, 
and  it  was  late. 

She  said  good-bye  to  her  very  gently,  kissing  her  poor 
faded  face  repeatedly.  "  I  will  write  to  you,"  she  said. 
"  I  must  go  on  to-morrow,  for  I  have  written,  but  oh, 
carissima,  I  wish  I  could  stay !  " 

"  Nonsense,  dear.  I  wouldn't  let  you  stay.  I  should 
not  have  let  you  come,  if  I  had  known.  I  am  glad  that  I 
did  not  know.  You  must  go.  Tell  your  grandfather  that 
I  kept  my  word,  dear." 

"  My  grandfather!     You  know  him?  " 

"  Yes.  And  Burke  will  be  coming  to  see  me.  What 
shall  I  tell  him?" 

Pam  paused. 

"  Tell  him,"  she  said,  after  a  moment,  with  deliberate 
slowness,  "  that  I  am  very  sorry ;  that  I  love  another  man 
with  my  whole  heart,  and  that  because  of  that  I  do  not 
wish  to  see  him." 

"  You  are  right.  I  will  tell  him.  And  now,  good-bye. 
Come  and  let  me  bless  you,  if  you  think  my  blessing " 

"  Hush,  carissima!  " 

The  young  girl,  her  mind   still  heavy  with  the  burden 


P  A  M  327 

she  had  hoped  to  unload  here,  knelt  simply  like  a  child  by 
the  bed,  and  bent  her  head  to  the  failing  hand. 

A  moment  later  she  was  driving  rapidly  through  the 
streets,  her  eyes  wet,  her  heart  heavy. 

Ravaglia  was  dying,  and  Ravaglia  was  to  be  the  first 
person  she  knew  to  go  through  the  Great  Grate. 


CHAPTER  II 


"  MONKS'  YEOLAND,  Wednesday. 

"  DEARS  BOTH:  After  divers  and  varied  adventures  by 
sea  and  land  we  arrived  here  on  Saturday,  and  I  should 
have  written  before  only  I  have  been  frightfully  busy,  and 
I  knew  you  wouldn't  worry. 

"  Well,  to  go  back  to  Paris.  I  looked  up  Madame  Fer- 
nande,  and  she  measured  me  for  my  gown  for  the  wedding, 
and  two  others.  She  says  my  figure  is  very  good,  and  I 
think  she's  right,  too.  She's  making  me  a  biscuit-coloured 
cloth  gown  trimmed  with  a  sort  of  green  and  gold  braid 
(sounds  appalling,  but  it  isn't),  a  blue  crepe  de  chine,  and 
the  wedding  garment,  which  is,  as  mother  advised,  also 
pale  blue,  a  lovely  gauzy,  chiffony  thing  with  a  silk  stripe, 
and  which  makes  Pam,  '  in  the  dusk  with  the  light  behind 
her,'  appear  a  very  attractive  young  person.  I  also  got 
some  hats — one  is  lovely,  very  flat,  all  black,  and  joy  of 
joys,  not  lop-sided. 

"  Pilly  was  dreadful  in  Paris — on  the  point  of  bursting 
into  loud  lamentations  all  the  time;  I  had  my  hair  washed 
at  Lentheric's,  and  the  man  dressed  it  in  a  lovely  way, 
low,  smooth  on  top,  and  parted.  I  told  Pilgrim  to  watch 
how  he  did  it,  but  she  glared  so  he  asked  me  to  have  her 
stop,  as  she  made  him  nervous.  In  the  afternoon  we  drove 
a  long  time.  I  bought  mother's  silk  stockings,  and  did  some 
other  errands,  and  then  I  went  to  see  Madame  Ravaglia. 
The  Duchess  (with  whom  I  dined  just  before  I  left  home) 
told  me  Ravaglia  was  going  to  have  a  sale  of  all  her  things 

328 


P  A  M  329 

as  she  was  111.  She  Is  very  ill,  In  bed,  and  I  nearly  cried. 
She  says  that  she  is  dying,  and  I  believe  it.  Her  little  girl 
is  dead,  too.  She  was  heavenly  to  me.  I  forgot  to  ask 
her  about  the  sale.  It  all  seems  so  sad,  but  I  believe  she  is 
glad  to  die.  She  told  me,  by  the  way,  that  Charnley  Burke 
was  on  the  point  of  going  to  a  certain  villa  on  a  certain 
coast  to  say  certain  things  of  grave  import  to  a  certain 
young  female.  Really,  do  you  think  it  was  fair  to  give 
him  leave  to  pop  in  on  me  like  that?  Thank  goodness, 
I  got  away  in  time!  I  always  liked  him,  but  that  is  '  just  as 
far  as  the  tale  goes,'  and  you  two  ought  to  know  it.  Madame 
Ravaglia  is  going  to  tell  him  this,  so  you  needn't  manoeuvre ! 

"  In  the  evening  we,  Pilly  and  I,  went  to  see  Entre 
Arbre  et  Ecorce.  Awfully  well  acted,  but  it  was  just  as 
well  that  Pilly  didn't  understand  it  all.  Guess  who  sat 
in  a  baignoire  near  us?  M.  de  Vaucourt!  He  is  thinner 
and  looked  quite  young.  Very  well  got  up,  of  course,  and 
either  his  hair  is  beginning  to  grow,  or  he  is  wearing  a 
craftily  made  '  scratch.'  The  girl  with  him  was  as  lovely 
as  an  angel,  and  I  heaved  a  sigh  for  poor  '  Delphine  ' !  He 
came  and  spoke  to  me,  and  the  following  dialogue  ensued : 
"  '  He.  Mais,  Mademoiselle  Pam !  Que  je  suis  enchante 
de  vous  revoir ! ' 

1 '  Me.  Trop  aimable,  Monsieur ! ' 

'  He.   And  Madame  votre  mere,  et  Monsieur  votre  pere, 
sont-ils  avec? ' 

'  Me.  No,  I  am  alone  with  my  maid.' 

; '  He.  Will  you  allow  an  old  friend  to  compliment  you 
on  your  beauty  ?  ' 

' '  Me.  Flattery  is  always  acceptable.' 
'  He.  You  have  just  come  from  home?  ' 

; '  Me.  Yesterday.     I    am    going    on    to    England    to- 
morrow.* 

'* '  He.  I  go  south  next  week — to  close  my  villa,  alas.' 


330  P  A  M 

"'Me.    Ah!' 

"  '  He.  The  world  no  doubt  looks  very  bright  to  your 
bright  eyes,  Mademoiselle;  to  me,  alas!  there  are  in  my 
heart  yawning  gaps  that  never  can  be  bridged.' 

"'Me  (coldly).  Oh!' 

"  '  He.  I  shall  hope  to  see  your  parents,  Mademoiselle 
Pam.  I  should  not  like  them  to  believe  me  worse  than  I 
am.' 

" '  Me.  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  danger  of  that 
(sweetly).' 

"  '  He  (after  a  suspicious  stare).  Well,  I  must  be  off.  I 
came  with  my  brother-in-law,  and  must  rejoin  him,  after 
making  my  visits.' 

"  Then  he  went,  and  Pilgrim,  whose  feelings  were  as 
usual  almost  too  much  for  her,  abused  him  until  I  snubbed 
her  violently. 

"  I  had  brought  the  crucifix,  etc.,  that  Madame  de  V. 
had  asked  me  to  look  up  for  her,  and  sent  them  to  her  the 
next  morning.  I  didn't  go  myself,  for  I  had  no  time. 

"  We  had  a  brute  of  a  crossing,  and  I  blush  to  state 
that  I  was  most  awfully  sick  for  an  hour.  So  was  Caliban. 
Pilgrim  was  perfectly  well  all  the  way,  but  not  particularly 
companionable. 

"  It  poured  in  London,  so  I  took  a  four-wheeler  and  did 
my  errands.  I  met  Mrs.  Cunningham  in  the  Burlington 
Arcade.  She  told  me  all  the  Monks'  Yeoland  news,  and 
we  lunched  together  at  Prince's.  I  adore  big  restaurants. 
She — Mrs.  Cunningham — told  me  that  poor  Cecil  More- 
cambe,  Evy's  old  adorer,  had  dined  with  her  and  Mr.  Cun- 
ningham the  evening  before,  and  that  he  was  very  unhappy 
about  the  wedding.  He  has  a  living  in  Chelsea. 

"  I  got  my  present  for  Evy,  and  it  is  really  a  corker; 
a  big  white  ostrich  feather  fan  mounted  in  yellow  tortoise- 
shell.  I'm  having  her  monogram  put  in  in  little  diamonds. 


P  A  M  331 

"  Pilgrim  had  two  teeth  out,  poor  dear,  and  I  bought 
her  a  new  dress  and  a  black  cape.  I  do  so  love  having  my 
own  banking-account!  I  also  had  my  picture  taken.  The 
man  was  very  funny.  He  is  a  little,  wild-eyed,  red-haired 
Yid,  and  jumped  about  his  camera  and  waved  his  arms 
in  the  funniest  way.  The  proofs  came  this  morning,  and 
are  pretty  good.  Grandfather  says  the  one  I  like  might 
be  either  Cally  or  me,  but  the  other,  the  one  he  likes,  looks 
like  a  tooth-paste  advertisement. 

"  G.  F.  met  me  at  the  station,  and  we  fell  on  each  other's 
necks  and  wept  for  joy. 

"  Before  he  had  a  chance  to  speak  I  told  him  that  as  I 
had  decided  to  forgive  him  we  would  let  bygones  be 
bygpnes,  and  not  reopen  old  disputes!  From  the  way  he 
laughed  at  that  very  silly  joke  I  judged  that  he  has  been 
pretty  dull  of  late,  and  I  find  that  I  was  not  mistaken. 

"  Evelyn  and  Aunt  Rosamund  are  very  busy  with  the 
wedding  preparations,  of  course.  Mr.  Maxse  is  ill,  and 
Ratty  has  been  having  a  flirtation  with  a  barmaid  in  Ox- 
ford— a  cheerful  divinity  called  Maudie,  who  appears  to 
have  conceived  the  idea  of  becoming  the  future  Lady  Yeo- 
land. 

"  G.  F.  had  hopes  that  Ratty  would  succumb  to  my 
charms  (which  are  considered,  you  will  be  glad  to  hear, 
to  have  augmented  considerably  within  the  last  year),  and 
though  I  sternly  refuse  to  exercise  those  charms  towards 
the  unlawful  ends  contemplated  by  that  wicked  old  man, 
only  modesty  prevents  my  stating  that  the  fair  Maudie's 
chances  are  rapidly  waning  since  my  arrival ! 

"  Evelyn  is  very  handsome,  and  seems  much  pleased  with 
herself  and  her  prospects! 

"  Sir  George  Chesney  is  pretty  awful,  I  think — a  short 
man  with  small  eyes  and  a  mean  mouth — but  he  is  in  love 
with  her,  and  has  given  her  the  loveliest  things.  I  am  glad 


332  P  A  M 

that  no  one  who  owns  a  pink  pearl  pendant  like  hers  has  a 
fancy  to  possess  my  soul  ! 

"  They  are  going  to  Paris,  and  thence  automobiling 
through  Brittany.  Mr.  Maxse  is  very  ill,  and  I  am  terribly 
sorry  for  him.  He  says  he  has  every  known  disease  except 
the  bubonic  plague.  When  I  have  time  I  read  aloud  to 
him.  I  don't  think  any  of  the  others  except  grandfather 
realise  how  ill  he  is. 

"  Cazzy  is  as  great  a  love  as  ever.  His  head  is  literally 
quite  bald,  except  a  little  fringe  over  his  ears  and  across 
the  back,  and  he  is  getting  fat.  I  do  love  him.  He  sends 
all  sorts  of  messages  to  you  both,  and  the  dear  old  thing 
has  —  guess  what?  A  wedding  present  for  you!  It's  a 
beautiful  crystal  bowl  that  belonged  to  his  mother.  I  had 
tea  with  him  yesterday,  and  we  had  a  veiy  good  time  to- 
gether. Well,  this  letter  is  long  enough,  and  I  must  go 
do-do.  To-morrow  is  the  wedding,  and  my  frock  is  perfect. 
The  Duchess  and  Lady  Henrietta  are  here.  I  have  not  yet 
seen  them,  and  the  Duchess  has  just  sent  her  maid  to  ask 
me  to  go  in  to  her  for  a  minute.  I'll  write  all  about  the 
wedding  before  long.  "  Lovingly, 


"  P.  S.  —  Of  course  in  the  dialogue  between  me  and 
M.  de  Vaucourt  I  should  have  put  '  He  —  I',  only  '  I  '  looks 
all  wrong  to  me,  somehow." 

When  she  had  addressed  and  stamped  her  letter  Pam 
rose,  and  tying  the  ribbons  of  her  white  dressing-gown 
into  a  neat  bow,  swung  her  long  plaits  over  her  shoulders, 
and  crossing  the  dimly  lighted  corridor  knocked  at  the 
Duchess's  door. 

Her  Grace,  who  was  sitting  by  her  dressing-table  in  a 
very  gorgeous  black  satin  kimono,  greeted  the  girl  with  en- 
thusiasm. 


P  A  M  333 

"Well,  you  dreadful  little  creature,  how  are  you!  And 
why  did  you  bolt  away  like  that!  Don't  sit  down  on 
Bijou — there's  a  chair.  Will  you  have  some  Bovril?  Or 
some  Force?  Then  tell  me,  why  aren't  you  going  to  be 
bridesmaid  ?  " 

Pam  started. 

"  Because  I  am  never  going  to  be  bridesmaid,"  she  an- 
swered. "  And,  anyway,  I'd  have  looked  like  a  nigger  among 
all  those  blonde  girls !  " 

"Bah!  You  aren't  vain,  I  know  better!  Your  grand- 
father thinks  it's  because  you  don't  like  George  Chesney. 
Perhaps  he's  right." 

"  Perhaps  he  is,"  returned  the  girl  gravely. 

"  Evy  told  me  she  was  very  much  disappointed." 

"Yes;  she  is  a  dear,  Evy.     How  is  Lady  Henrietta?" 

The  Duchess  set  down  her  cup,  unpinned  a  beautiful 
coil  of  mahogany-coloured  hair,  and  laid  it  on  the  table; 
and  then,  turning,  said,  her  eyes  fixed  closely  on  Pam's, 
"  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  Henny,  Pam." 

. .   T»  i  tt 

1  o  me! 

"  Yes,  to  you.  You  are  a  ridiculous  runaway  thing,  but 
you  are  shrewd,  and  you  are  truthful.  I  think,  too,  that  you 
like  Henny." 

"  I  do  like  her;  I  do,  indeed,  but " 

"  Now,  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  be  tiresome  and  have 
scruples.  If  I  choose  to  talk  to  you  about  my  daughter  it 
is  surely  my  affair!  " 

Pam  looked  steadily  at  her,  frowning  as  she  answered, 
"Or— hers!" 

"  If  you  like.  Listen :  that  night  when  you  dined  with  us, 
I  saw  you  watching  her  as  if  you  understood.  Did  you  ?  I 
mean  you  saw  that  she  looked  ill  and  worried.  Did  you 
guess  why  ?  " 

"  I  guessed,  yes.    My  guess  may  not  have  been  correct." 


334  P  A  M 

"  It  possibly  was,  however.  It  was  that  Jim  Peele  is  not 
making  her  happy,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

The  Duchess,  who  seemed,  with  the  removal  of  part  of  her 
hair,  to  have  taken  off  something  of  her  garment  of  manner, 
went  on  slowly  with  serious  directness: 

"  You  saw  a  good  deal  of  him  last  spring,  he  told  us,  and 
your  eyes  are  keen  and  young.  I  never  thought  that  he 
rared  for  her  really,  and  now  I  think  she  is  beginning  to 
think  so,  too." 

Pam  had  grown  pale,  and  her  eyes  were  very  like  Caliban's 
as  she  listened. 

"  Henny  is  very  beautiful,  and  she  has  been  much  ad- 
mired," the  Duchess  resumed,  "  but  she  is  not  spoiled.  She 
was  never  clever,  but  she  was  always  sweet  and  good,  and 
she  deserves  to  be  happy — not  that  that  is  the  best  reason  for 
her  being  so!  However,  when  she  fell  in  love  with  Jim 
Peele  I  didn't  make  even  the  nominal  protest  I  might  have 
made.  The  man  was,  of  course,  her  social  inferior,  but  she 
had  refused  dozens  of  men,  and  she  was  thirty.  So  they  be- 
came engaged.  The  result  is  that  she  is  losing  her  looks  and 
crying  her  eyes  out  because  he  treats  her  as  he  does.  He  is 
polite  and  kind  enough,  he  never  flirts,  he  seems  to  have  no 
bad  habits — and  I,  moi  qui  vous  parle,  am  at  my  wit's  ends!  " 

Pam  had  listened  with  a  curious  withholding  of  action; 
with  a  feeling  that  for  her  was  the  role  of  absolute  passivity ; 
that  something  outside  of  herself  would  give  her  a  mental 
lead.  Now,  when  the  Duchess  stopped  speaking,  and  looked 
expectantly  at  her,  the  girl  returned  her  glance  with  grave 
attention,  but  did  not  answer,  and  after  a  pause  the  old 
woman  went  on:  "I  daresay  you  think  me  as  mad  as  a 
hatter,  to  be  saying  all  this  to  you ;  but,  as  I  said,  I  am  at  my 
wit's  end,  and  there  is  no  one  else  of  whom  I  can  ask  an 
opinion." 


P  A  M  335 

"  An  opinion !  " 

"  Yes.  Algy — my  son  Wight — is  a  mere  boy,  and  devoted 
to  Mr.  Peele;  my  other  daughter  has  met  him  only  once  arid 
can  give  no  opinion;  and  you  know  him,  and  have  recently 
seen  them  together.  Will  you  tell  me,  in  a  word,  what  you 
think  the  trouble  is?  Is  it  that  the  man  has  no  heart  in  him, 
or  is  it  that  he  loves  some  one  else  ?  " 

Pam  stared,  still  feeling  that  she  need  not  act;  that  some- 
one else  would  act  for  her.  And  before  the  pause  had  grown 
to  be  too  long  a  brisk  knock  came  to  the  door. 

"  Mrs.  Maxse's  compliments,  Miss,  and  would  you  be  so 
kind  as  to  go  to  Mr.  Maxse  for  a  moment?  'E  'as  been 
took  bad." 

Pam  followed  the  servant  down  the  passage,  after  a 
hasty  good-night  to  the  Duchess,  telling  herself  that  she  had 
known  that  the  message  would  come. 


CHAPTER  III 


A  SLEEPLESS  night  is  bad  for  one's  looks,  even  in  one's 
teens,  and  Pam,  as  she  cast  a  final  glance  at  herself  in  the 
glass  before  leaving  her  room  the  next  morning,  made  a  face 
and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  If  candour  were  your  leading  characteristic,  Pilly,"  she 
remarked,  taking  her  gloves  from  her  maid,  "  you  would 
agree  with  me  that  I  would  rejoice  Mr.  Darwin's  eyes  to-day 
• — but  for  the  fact  that  he  is  dead — as  an  overwhelming  argu- 
ment in  favour  of  his  theory !  " 

"  You  hadn't  ought  to  make  faces,  Miss  Pam ;  you'll  have 
wrinkles  before  you  are  twenty,  if  you  do;  you  'aven't  got 
your  mother's  skin." 

"  What  a  horrid  idea !  Imagine  poor  mother  if  I  had  her 
skin!  Pilly,  you  do  say  the  most  saugrenue  things.  Now, 
mind  you,  don't  let  Caliban  get  away,  or  he'll  come  to 
church  as  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs.  Heavens,  how  ugly  I  am 
to-day!" 

Pilgrim  watched  her  young  mistress  out  of  sight  and  then, 
with  the  sigh  that  had  Become  chronic  of  late,  set  to  work 
arranging  the  room,  which  looked,  as  was  usual  to  it  after 
the  performance  of  a  grand  toilette  by  its  present  inhabitant, 
much  as  though  it  had  been  swept  by  a  cyclone. 

"  She  didn't  sleep,  I  know  she  didn't,"  the  good  woman 
said  to  herself  as  she  emptied  the  candlestick  of  half  a  dozen 
burnt  matches ;  "  and  she  only  began  that  book  yesterday. 
That  means  she  read  in  the  night ;  and  she  wrote  too.  Ever 

336 


P  A  M  337 

since  that  man  came  to  the  villa  she  'asn't  been  the  same. 
'Ow  I  wish  'e'd  died  when  'e  was  teething!  " 

Tears  welled  slowly  into  her  unattractive  eyes  as  she 
worked;  she  was  very  troubled  about  her  young  mistress, 
and  she  had  no  one  to  whom  to  go  for  help.  Even  while  she 
knew  that  Pam  would  surely  insist  not  only  on  dreeing  her 
own  weird,  but  also  on  dreeing  it  in  her  own  way  and  time, 
Pilgrim  could  not  watch  the  progress  of  events  without  at 
least  attempting  to  turn  them  from  the  way  in  which  she 
believed  them  to  be  moving. 

And  when  she  had  settled  down  to  some  work  in  her  room 
her  mind  was  busy  with  the  subject  of  Peele.  That  morn- 
ing she  had  learned  to  her  surprise  that  Peele  was  to  be  at  the 
wredding.  The  Duchess's  maid  had  told  her,  and  though 
Pilgrim,  who  had  been  told  by  Pam  several  days  before  that 
he  was  unfortunately  unable  to  attend  that  function,  was 
shocked  by  the  news  she  had  not  betrayed  her  feelings  to  the 
other  servant. 

"So  'e's  coming!  Very  nice  for  'er  ladyship,  isn't  it?" 
she  answered  conventionally. 

"  Oh,  very!  'Er  ladyship  is  going  to  look  a  dream,  too. 
'Er  gown  is  by  Worth,  my  dear,  and  perfectly  sweet." 

"  She  is  very  beautiful,"  Pilgrim  agreed. 

"  Isn't  she!  And  good,  too,  Miss  Pilgrim!  Them  beau- 
ties is  mostly  hawful  to  serve,  but  'er  ladyship  is  as  kind  as 
if  she  was  'idious.  Much  too  good  for  "tm,  is  my  opinion,  if 
you  ask  it !  " 

Pilgrim  had  not  asked  it,  but  it  was  none  the  less  accept- 
able to  her.  "A  very  pleasant  gentleman,  'e  seems;  'e  was 
'ere  once  before,  and  we  liked  "im,"  she  answered. 

"  Did  you  ?  Well,  it's  not  for  me  to  say,  but  when  a 
lady  'as  the  'eadache  as  often  as  'er  ladyship,  and  cries  'er 
eyes  out  every  few  days,  it  isn't  me  as  says  'er  gentleman  is 
good  enough  for  her.  And  not  even  a  baronet !  " 


338  P  A  M 

Poor  Pilgrim  was  a  very  honest  woman,  and  the  natural 
bent  of  her  character  was  towards  a  somewhat  grim  and 
unattractive  straightforwardness;  but  on  this  occasion  she 
had  tampered  with  the  Lady  Henrietta's  communicative 
maid,  and  had  learned  many  things  that  made  her  uneasier 
and  more  anxious  than  before. 

She  had  not  told  Pam  that  Peele  was,  in  spite  of  his 
original  intention  to  the  contrary,  coming  to  the  wedding  in 
obedience  to  a  telegraphic  summons  from  his  fiancee  sent  the 
day  before.  It  would,  she  felt,  be  better  to  tell  Pam,  but 
somehow  she  had  been  unable  to  approach  the  subject  with 
the  girl,  though  she  was  sure  that  Pam  did  not  know.  And 
in  this  she  was  right.  Peele's  coming  down  to  Sir  Henry 
Pockington's  had  been  duly  communicated  to  Mrs.  Maxse, 
but  in  the  excitement  and  hurry  usual  at  such  times  the 
news  had  elicited  no  comment,  and  Pam  had  not  heard  it. 

She  did  not  see  Peele  until,  when  the  marriage  ceremony 
was  nearly  over,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  find  his  fixed  on  her. 
For  a  moment  she  met  his  gaze,  and  then  turned  again  to 
the  bevy  of  girls  at  the  altar-rails.  It  seemed,  his  presence, 
very  much  to  have  been  expected,  and  quite  appropriate  to 
the  curious  chain  of  events  that  had  led  to  the  present  situa- 
tion. The  Duchess's  confidence  had  thrown  the  girl  back 
into  the  confusion  and  trouble  from  which  her  perceptions 
of  Peele's  real  need  of  her  had  raised  her;  if  he  needed  her, 
Lady  Henrietta  seemed  to  need  him  quite  as  badly,  and  it  is 
not  pleasant  to  be  confided  in  by  a  person  you  are  contem- 
plating injuring. 

The  Duchess's  confirmation  of  the  girl's  own  impression 
that  Peele  was  making  his  future  wife  unhappy  had  again 
roused  in  her  the  curious  resentment  she  had  felt  towards 
him  the  evening  of  the  dinner  at  the  hotel.  She  had  not 
slept,  and  all  night  long  the  combinations  possible  as  an  end 
of  the  chapter  she  had  come  to  in  her  life  passed  before  her 


P  A  M  339 

eyes.  Peele  might  marry  Lady  Henrietta — that  was  the 
first  possibility.  And  that  granted,  he  might  forget  Pam 
and  make  his  wife  happy,  or  he  might  remember  and  want 
Pam,  and  ruin  Lady  Henrietta's  life. 

The  second  possibility  was  that  he  should  break  his  engage- 
ment. This  hypothesis  accepted,  the  girl's  mind  went  on  to 
picture  him  either  as  her  own  husband  or  her  lover. 

If  she  married  him,  as  he  wished,  he  would  be  happy  (for 
she  knew  that  she  could  be  an  admirable  wife),  unless  the 
comparative  poverty  that  would  be  the  result  of  such  a  mar- 
riage, and  the  lost  prestige  occasioned  by  his  jilting  of  the 
Duke  of  Wight's  sister,  should  hurt  his  love  for  her.  He 
had  admitted  that  the  close  relations  to  several  powerful  men 
into  which  his  marriage  with  the  Lady  Henrietta  would 
bring  him  would  be  of  the  utmost  importance  to  his  career, 
and  instinctively  the  girl  felt  that  his  ambition,  were  she 
herself  not  almost  more  ambitious  for  him,  would  be  her  only, 
but  dangerous,  rival. 

If,  then,  he  did  not  marry  her,  but,  breaking  his  engage- 
ment, allowed  her  to  follow  out  her  own  plan  of  going  to 
him  as  his  mistress,  it  would,  as  she  believed,  assure  their  love 
to  each  other  for  ever. 

As  she  reached  for  the  hundredth  time  this  point  in  her 
reflections  the  organ  burst  out  into  the  recessional,  and  Sir 
George  and  Lady  Chesney,  followed  by  the  bridesmaids, 
passed  into  the  vestry. 

Pam  and  Ratty,  among  others,  followed  them,  and  a  few 
moments  later  the  road  between  the  church  and  the  house 
was  bright  with  gaily  attired  women  and  their  soher-hued 
attendants.  Ratty,  whose  was  the  misfortune  of  looking 
his  very  best  in  his  oldest  clothes,  placed  himself  a*-  Pam's 
side  and  stuck  there  with  sullen  persistence  all  the 
way,  although  several  men  tried  to  oust  him  from  his  D* 
sition. 


340  PAM 

"  Hang  'em    all,"  the   fat   youth  muttered,   "  why  don't 
they  go  and  talk  to  their  own  cousins  ?  " 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  them  ?  "  she  suggested  carelessly. 
"  Don't  step  on  Mrs.  Baring's  gown  again !  " 

"  Look  here,  Pam,  I'd  like  to  kick  that  chap  Liddes- 
leigh  !  " 

"  Why  ?     He  is  harmless  enough  surely  1  " 

"  Then  what  does  he  mean  by  staring  at  you  all  through 
the  service  ? " 

"  Did  he  stare  at  me  ?     And  what  if  he  did  ? " 

"  You  know  he  did  !     and  I  believe  you  like  it." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  his  red,  angry  face  as  they 
crossed  the  lawn.  "  Look  here,  Ratty,  don't  be  idiotic, 
please." 

"  Idiotic  1     Is  a  man  idiotic  because  he  is  in " 

"  Some  men  are,"  she  returned  coolly,  "  and  all  boys.  If 
you  propose  to  me  again,  I'll  tell  grandfather.  I  give  you 
my  word  I  will !  " 

Ratty  subsided  at  this  threat  into  sulky  silence,  and  a  few 
minutes  later  Pam  came  down  from  Maxse's  room  after 
having  given  the  invalid  a  brief  description  of  events,  and 
went  into  the  library  where  her  grandfather,  the  victim  since 
the  day  before  of  a  sharp  attack  of  his  old  enemy,  was 
installed  in  his  wheel-chair. 

"  It's  done,  G.  F.,"  she  exclaimed  gaily,  kissing  him. 
"  Evelyn  Maxse  is  dead ;  long  live  Lady  Chesney  !  " 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  keenly.  "  So  Peele  came  down 
after  all,"  he  said. 

"  Yes.  Ratty  says  the  Duchess  told  Aunt  Rosamond 
yesterday,  but  I  didn't  know,  either.  I  looked  up  during  the 
service,  and'  there  he  was,  sweetly  squeezed  in  between  the 
Duchess  and  Lady  Henrietta.  He  looks  very  ill,  by  the  way." 

"  Humph  !  "  Lord  Yeoland  rubbed  his  nose  and,  after 
a  pause,  went  on  :  "  Here's  a  list  I've  made.  If  you  let  any 


P  A  M  341 

of  these  people  get  in  here,  I'll  shoot  'em  in  their  tracks. 
Mind  you  look  out,  now !  " 

The  young  girl  took  the  slip  of  paper  and  left  the  room, 
frowning  thoughtfully.  She  was  very  quick  at  feeling  other 
people's  moods,  and  she  knew  that  something  connected  with 
James  Peele  had  disturbed  her  grandfather. 

In  the  hall  she  met  the  Lady  Henrietta  and  Peele,  and 
stood  quite  still  as  they  approached,  an  involuntary  tribute  to 
the  wonderful  beauty  of  the  woman  in  the  shimmering  silver- 
coloured  gown. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Pam  ?  "  Peele  shook  hands  with 
her  and  then  asked  for  news  of  her  grandfather. 

"  He  is  not  very  well ;  he  has  the  gout  horribly,  poor  dear ; 
isn't  it  a  pity  ?  " 

"  It  is,  indeed." 

The  Lady  Henrietta  patted  her  arm  as  Peele  spoke,  and 
after  a  short  pause  said  kindly:  "  You  look  ill,  Pam,  what 
is  it,  a  headache?  " 

"  No.     I  am  troubled  about  something — I  slept  badly." 

"  You  are  young  to  be  troubled,  dear.  Perhaps  we  can 
help  you,  when  the  people  are  gone  and  we  can  be  quiet." 

Pam  shook  her  head.  "  No,  you  can't,"  she  said  almost 
ungraciously.  "  No  one  can,  but  I'll  be  all  right." 

As  she  spoke  she  noticed  a  telegram  that  Peele  held  in  his 
hand.  "  Is  that  for  me?  "  she  added,  surprised. 

"  Yes.  I  found  a  servant  looking  for  you,"  returned  the 
Lady  Henrietta,  "  and  I  said  I'd  give  it  to  you." 

The  young  girl  opened  the  message,  which  was  very  long, 
and  read  it  slowly,  a  slow  flush  creeping  up  her  face. 

"Pam,  Pam!"  The  Lady  Henrietta  shook  her  finger 
playfully  at  the  girl  as  she  spoke.  "  I  never  saw  you  blush 
before!" 

"  I — it  is  something  very  good  and  kind.  I — I  must  go, 
Lady  Henrietta."  Turning,  she  ran  swiftly  up  the  shallow 


342  P  A  M 

oaken  stairs.     When  she  had  reached  her  room  and  bolted 
the  door,  she  sat  down  and  reread  the  telegram. 

"  Have  seen  R.  [it  said],  and  will  not  trouble  you  again. 
Am  staying  on  here  as  long  as  she  needs  me,  and  if  I  can  be 
of  use  to  you  in  any  way  wire  me  Langham,  and  I  will  come. 
I  promise  not  to  say  a  word  to  you  about  myself.  For  God's 
sake,  do  nothing  about  P.  without  telling  your  grandfather. 
God  bless  you,  and  as  long  as  I  live  I  am  at  your  disposition. 
Permanent  address,  Cooke — Melbourne. 

"  CHARNLEY  BURKE." 

For  a  long  time  the  girl  sat  musing.  He  was  very  good, 
Charnley  Burke,  and  very  unselfish,  and  his  love  for  her  was 
strong  and  sincere.  It  was  a  pity  that  she  had  not  fallen  in 
love  with  him ! 

At  last,  putting  the  telegram  in  her  pocket,  she  went  down- 
stairs again. 


CHAPTER  IV 


EVELYN,  sitting  in  a  low  chair  in  the  skirt  of  her  wed- 
ding gown,  while  her  maid  changed  her  satin  shoes  for  a 
very  smart  pair  of  patent-leather  boots,  wept  softly,  dabbing 
her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief  which  she  had  rolled  into  a 
ball. 

Pam,  standing  by  the  dressing-table,  very  erect,  her  hands 
behind  her,  looked  on  in  stern  disapproval. 

"  Your  howling  in  this  way  is  a  charming  tribute  to  your 
husband,"  she  observed  drily,  in  French. 

Evelyn  sniffed.  "  I  know  it ;  it's  awful,  but  I  can't  help 
it.  Vm  so  nervous  I  could  die." 

The  bride's  French  brought  a  faint  smile  to  her  cousin's 
mouth,  but  that  critical  person  only  nodded.  "  Want  some 
orange-flower  water?  I'll  get  you  some  of  Uncle  Dick's," 
she  asked  in  English  after  a  pause. 

"  No,  thanks.     Pam,  is  my  nose  red  ?  " 

"  Red  as  a  beet.  Really,  Evy,  I'd  be  raging  if  I  were  Sir 
George.  Why  are  you  crying  ?  " 

Evelyn  rose  suddenly,  unhooked  her  skirt,  stepped  out 
of  it,  and  kicking  it  aside  with  an  indifference  that  alarmed 
Pam,  said  to  her  maid :  "  You  may  go,  Harkness,  and  when 
I  want  you  I'll  ring.  Pam,"  she  went  on  hurriedly,  as  the 
door  closed,  "  Mamma  will  be  coming  in  a  minute,  and  I 
must  tell  you  first.  Look  here,  and  you'll  see  why  I  cry." 

Opening  a  drawer  of  her  writing-table,  she  took  out  a 
book  and  a  letter  and  handed  them  to  the  now  thoroughly 
alarmed  Pam. 

343 


344  P  AM 

"A  Bible!  My  dear  Evy,  you  aren't  crying  about  a 
Bible!  "  But  her  jocular  tone  failed  her  as  she  glanced  at 
the  open  letter. 

"  MY  DEAR  EVELYN  :  I  am  sending  you  a  Bible  as  a 
wedding  gift.  Please  let  it  be  the  one  you  use.  And  now, 
writing  you  for  the  last  time,  I  can  only  repeat  what  you 
know,  that  I  shall  never  forget  you  and  never  love  any  one 
else.  You  have  made  your  choice,  and  I  pray  that  you  may 
be  happy.  You  will  at  least  have  all  the  comforts  to  which 
you  are  used.  I  am  going  to  Africa  with  the  Bishop  of 
Natal.  I  may  be  able  to  do  some  good  there. 

"  Good-bye  again,  and  God  bless  you. 

"  CECIL  MORECAMBE." 

Pam  read  the  letter  twice,  and  then  looked  up  with  a 
frown  at  which  the  bride  trembled. 

"  You  have  been  writing  each  other  all  the  time,"  she 
said  sternly. 

"  Oh,  Pam,  I  couldn't  help  it.  I — I  love,  I  mean,  I 
loved  him  so." 

"  How  did  you  get  his  letters?  " 

"  He  used  to  send  them  to  Mary  Kirke." 

"  Mary  Kirke !  Well,  and  so  you  have  been  having  a 
— a  love  correspondence  while  you  were  engaged.  I  must 
say,  Evelyn,  I  am  ashamed  of  you.  There  is  nothing  so 
loathesome  as  a  sneak!  And  now — you  are  Lady  Chesney!  " 

"  You  have  no  right  to  call  me  a  sneak,  Pam  Yeoland." 

"  Yes.  I  have,  because  you  are  one.  And  a  coward,  or 
you  would  not  have  given  Cecil  up,  just  because  he  was  poor. 
Bah!  how  he  must  despise  you!  " 

Evelyn  sank  into  the  chair  at  her  dressing-table  and  wept 
with  an  utter  disregard  for  her  nose  which  Pam's  practical 
mind  at  once  observed. 


P  A  M  345 

"  Now  stop  crying,"  she  said,  giving  her  flaccid  cousin  an 
energetic  shake.  "  You'll  look  like  a  boiled  lobster  if  you 
don't.  Come,  here's  camphor;  smell  it  hard,  never  mind  if 
it  does  burn.  I'll  get  hot  water,  and  rose-water.  And  I'm 
going  to  burn  this  letter  of  Cecil's,  and  you  must  just  try  and 
forget  all  about  him;  it's  all  you  can  do  now." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  bride,  with  a  scrap  of  old  batiste 
soaked  in  rose  water  tenderly  wrapped  about  her  nose,  sat 
with  downcast  but  dry  eyes  before  her  glass,  while  Pam's 
deft  hands  braided  and  arranged  her  hair  for  the  last  time. 

"  You  see,  Evy,  I  told  you  long  ago,  when  he  first  pro- 
posed, that  it  would  be  as  easy  as  rolling  off  a  log  to  just 
tell  grandfather  that  you  would  marry  him.  And  I  told 
him — Cecil — that,  too." 

"  You  tell  everybody  things,  Pam,"  returned  Evy  with 
a  movement  of  not  inexcusable  resentment.  "  You  always 
did  think  you  could  do  everything.  Just  wait  until  you 
get  into  a  muddle,  and  see  how  easy  it  is  to  get  out  of  it !  " 

Pam's  hands  faltered  for  a  moment  in  their  work  among 
the  speaker's  honey-coloured  tresses,  and  then,  with  a  peculiar 
little  smile,  she  answered  gaily :  "  I  know,  Evy,  you  poor 
thing,  I  am  horribly  arbitrary,  but  then,  you  see,  when  I  can 
see  my  way  one  bit  I  never  hesitate — never!" 

"  I  suppose  you  think  I  saw  my  way  with  Cecil  writing 
frantic  letters  to  me,  and  Sir  George — I  mean  George — get- 
ting engaged  to  me  almost  before  I  knew  it!  " 

Pam  bent  down  and  kissed  her  hot  cheek,  in  a  sudden  im- 
pulse of  pity.  "  Poor  Evy!  I'm  sorry  I  was  so  cross,  dear, 
but  you  know  what  a  fiend  of  a  temper  I  have.  There! 
Your  hair's  perfect;  look  at  it  sideways.  I'll  ring  for  Hark- 
ness  now  and  go  down.  Grandfather  told  me  not  to  desert 
him.  All  the  Horrors  have  found  him  out  in  the  Red  Room 
and  he's  having  an  awful  time !  " 

As  she  went  downstairs  she  met  her  aunt  ascending. 


346  P  AM 

"  Your  grandfather  wants  you,  Pam,"  Mrs.  Maxse  said, 
"  and  your  uncle  too." 

"All  right,  Aunt  Rosamund;  I'll  go  to  grandfather  first, 
and  then  I'll  come  back  to  Uncle  Dick.  Don't  let  Evy  cry 
again,  or  Sir  George  will  refuse  to  take  her !  " 

Lord  Yeoland's  pleasant  little  plan  of  seeing,  in  his  retreat, 
only  those  people  who  did  not  bore  him  had  of  course  been 
foiled,  and  when  Pam  entered  the  Red  Room  she  found  him 
struggling  in  a  bog  of  conversation  with  the  wife  of  a  neigh- 
bouring squire  who,  being  deeply  interested  in  bees,  took 
for  granted  in  all  others  a  similar  love  for  those  irritatingly 
exemplar  little  creatures,  and  who  had  for  the  last  quarter 
of  an  hour  been  discoursing  to  the  old  gentleman  on  the 
merits  of  her  own  pet  hives  and  the  glaring  defects  of  all 
others. 

"  Eh,  Pam,  my  dear,"  Lord  Yeoland  exclaimed  with  that 
heartfelt  cordiality  with  which  one  greets  one's  rescuer  from 
a  bore,  "you  know  Mrs.  Bevis,  I  think?  She  has  been 
telling  me  the  most  enchanting  things  about  her  bees." 

"  Indeed !  How  delightful.  But  you  musn't  be  selfish, 
grandfather,  and  keep  Mrs.  Bevis  all  to  yourself.  Have  you 
seen  the  roses?  "  she  added,  turning  to  the  good  lady  with  a 
little  burst  of  enthusiasm  and  cordiality  that  brought  an 
instantly  repressed  grin  to  Lord  Yeoland's  face. 

A  moment  later  Mrs.  Bevis  had  buttonholed  the  Marquis, 
and  was  shouting  into  his  better  ear  a  few  polite  questions 
about  his  health  which  cunningly  led  the  way  to  apiculture, 
and  Pam  had  escaped. 

She  stood  for  a  few  minutes  on  the  lawn,  sighing  with 
relief,  her  face  relaxed  into  troubled  lines,  her  brows  drawn 
together. 

"  'Just  wait  until  I  get  into  a  muddle,'  "  she  said  aloud, 
quoting  Evelyn's  words  to  her  with  a  short  laugh.  "  A 
muddle!"  Catching  sight,  as  she  spoke,  of  the  Duchess 


P  A  M  347 

at  one  of  the  drawing-room  windows,  the  young  girl  turned 
and,  crossing  the  lawn,  went  into  the  ruin  and  ran  up  the 
stairs  to  the  top  of  the  tower.  The  block  of  wood,  whose 
failure  as  a  foothold  had  forced  her  to  be  present  at  Peek's 
proposal  to  the  Lady  Henrietta  the  year  before,  was  still 
there,  and,  sitting  down  on  it,  the  girl  rested  her  chin  on  her 
hands,  and  tried  to  think. 

It  was  hard  for  her  to  force  her  thoughts  into  any  definite 
channel,  for  they  were  wide-spread  and  disconnected,  un- 
decided and  confused. 

Peek's  presence  had  been  a  shock  to  her,  the  more  so 
because  of  the  Duchess's  interrupted  confidence  on  the 
evening  before.  As  she  had  told  Evelyn,  whenever  she 
could  see  her  way  she  had  no  hesitation  about  boldly  taking 
it,  regardless  of  possible  or  inevitable  results;  but  here  she 
could  see  no  way. 

Everything  seemed,  since  she  had  decided  that  Peek's 
future  depended  more  or  less  on  her,  once  more  a  whirl  of 
indecision,  for  the  Lady  Henrietta  had  again  come  into  the 
foreground,  and  her  rights  again  loomed  before  the  girl's 
eyes. 

Peek  had  come,  the  Lady  Henrietta  had  unobtrusively 
assumed  a  right  of  ownership  over  him,  and  Arcadia  seemed, 
at  best,  only  a  dream. 

To  Pam's  impatient  mind  nothing  was  so  maddening  as 
this  indecision.  "  If  I  could  only  decide  what  to  do,"  she 
told  herself  with  a  frown,  "  I  could  do  it  if  it  killed  me;  but 
the  more  I  think  the  less  I  can  tell  what  would  be  best  for 
him.  And  after  all,  I  may  be  just  a  vain  fool  to  imagine 
that  he  cares  that  much  for  me.  He  might  forget  all  about 
me  in  six  months,  and  she  could  help  him  in  a  thousand  ways. 
And  she  is  beautiful,  and  good,  and  kind,  and  I  am  brown 
and  ugly  and — illegitimate.  Or,  perhaps  I  am  not  that  any 
more,  since  father  and  mother  are  married." 


348  P  A  M 

As  she  arrived  at  this  irrelevant  point  in  her  musings 
her  quick  ear  caught  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  ruin,  and 
she  sat  up  listening.  She  knew,  before  he  appeared  in  the 
stairway,  that  it  was  Peele,  and  that  he  had  followed  her. 

"  Well !  "  he  said,  coming  towards  her. 

"  Well  ?  "  She  did  not  move  as  she  looked  up  with  a 
silent  nod,  "  You  look  very  smart  in  that  coat." 

"  Do  I?     I'm  glad.     Pam,  what  are  you  doing  here?  " 

"  Sitting  on  a  block  of  wood  and — glowering." 

"  I  can  see  that  much.  I  saw  you  coming,  and  I  came 
too." 

"  I  can  see  that  much.     What  do  you  want?  " 

Peele  leaned  against  the  parapet  and,  folding  his  arms, 
smiled  at  her.  "  You  are  in  a  very  bad  temper,  aren't 
you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes.  I  am  in  a  devilish  temper.  I  wish  you'd  go  away 
and  leave  me." 

"Do  you  really,  Pam?" 

She  met  his  eyes  steadily.  "  Yes.  Why  did  you  come 
to  the  wedding  at  all  ?  I  saw  your  '  regrets  '  myself." 

"  Henrietta  wired  me." 

"  Oh.     Well,  I  didn't  wire  you." 

"  Pam,  stand  up." 

"  Thanks,  I  am  very  comfortable." 

"  Stand  up,  I  say."  He  spoke  very  quietly,  but,  half  out 
of  curiosity,  she  obeyed  him. 

Then  he  took  her  hands  and  looked  into  her  eyes. 

"  Will  you  marry  me?  " 

"  I  told  you  there  that  I  would  not." 

"  That  was  in  Arcadia.  This  is  life,  and  it  has  to  be 
faced." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  during  which  she  made  such  an 
effort  to  stop  feeling  and  to  begin  to  think  that  she  grew 
very  pale. 


P  A  M  349 

"  Pam,  will  you  marry  me?  " 

"  If  I  said  yes,"  she  faltered,  "  what  would  you  say  to 
Henrietta?  " 

"  I  should  tell  her  the  truth,  and  ask  her  forgiveness.  I 
have  done  nothing  but  think  about  it,  and  it's  the  only  way. 
Dear?  " 

His  eyes  were  full  of  tears  as  he  spoke,  and  the  tears  so 
softened  and  changed  his  face  that  she  longed  to  pull  his 
head  to  her  breast  and  comfort  him  as  a  mother  does  her 
child.  Then  he  said  her  name,  very  softly.  "  Pam,"  and 
"  the  way  "  she  had  been  seeking  opened  before  her.  He 
needed  her  so  much  that  all  the  objections  she  had  against 
marrying  shrunk  to  nothingness.  She  must  become  his 
wife. 

With  a  great  heart-throb  she  was  about  to  answer  him, 
when  something  broke  the  encompassing  quiet.  "  Jim ! 
Jim,  are  you  here?  " 

It  was  Henrietta  Shanklin's  voice  in  the  refectory  below. 
"Jim!" 

Pam  drew  her  hands  from  Peele  and,  putting  them  behind 
her,  whispered  the  one  word,  "  Go." 

"  I  cannot.     You  must  marry  me." 

"  I  will  not.     Never.     Go." 

"  You  have  no  right  to  chop  and  change  like  this.  You 
must  marry  me !  " 

"Jim,  are  you  there?"  called  the  other  woman  from 
below.  Pam  looked  straight  at  him.  "  I  have  been  a  fool 
to  waver.  I  always  knew  that  you  must  keep  your  promise 
to  her.  Go." 

And  without  a  word   he  left  her. 

"  I  saw  you  sneaking  away  by  yourself,  you  unsociable 
creature!  "  his  fiancee  called  as  he  reached  the  ground,  "  and 
I  rather  hoped  you  might  be  here.  Jim,  how  pale  you  '«re ! 
What  is  it  ?  You  are  not  ill  again  ?  " 


350  P  A  M 

Pam  listened  eagerly,  leaning  against  the  parapet  where 
he  had  leaned. 

"  111?  Of  course  I'm  not.  I  saw  that  bee-woman  search- 
ing for  another  victim,  and  I  bolted,  that's  all.  What  a 
lovely  old  place  this  is." 

"  Yes.  Do  you  remember,  Jim  ?  "  Her  voice  was  sud- 
denly very  tender,  and  Pam  gave  a  forced  nod  of  approval  as 
she  listened. 

"  If  he  isn't  nice  to  her,  I'll  kill  him!  "  the  girl  thought, 
hugging  the  thorn  to  her  breast. 

Then,  suddenly,  she  drew  a  quick  breath  and  closed  her 
eyes. 

"  Henny,"  Peele  was  saying,  very  distinctly,  "  I  am  sail- 
ing for  South  Africa  four  weeks  from  to-day,  with  Miller. 
Will  you  marry  me  before  I  go  ?  " 

Pam  heard  no  answer,  but  she  knew  that  the  Lady  Hen- 
rietta was  crying  in  Peele's  arms. 


CHAPTER  V 


AN  hour  later  Pam  knocked  at  Lord  Yeoland's  door. 

"  Grandfather,  I  have  come  to  ask  a  favour  of  you!  " 

The  old  man  looked  up  from  the  fire  he  had  every  even- 
ing, even  in  the  spring  days. 

"A  favour?    You  have  only  to  ask,  Pam." 

The  young  girl  came  to  the  fire  and  sat  down,  her  white 
dressing-gown  falling  gracefully  about  her,  and  tinged  with 
pink  by  the  dancing  flames. 

"May  I  wear  my  grandmother's  emerald  to-night?" 

"  Your  grandmother's  emerald !  What  in  the  name  of 
all  that's  irrelevant  has  put  that  into  your  head,  my  dear?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  should  love  to  wear  it.  It  isn't," 
she  added,  "as  if  it  were  cut,  you  know.  Lots  of  people 
will  think  it's  a  chrysoprase." 

"  That's  true.  Well,  yes ;  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should 
not  wear  it.  Is  there  any  particular  reason  why  you 
should?" 

Pam  drew  one  of  her  long  plaits  thoughtfully  through  her 
hands. 

"  Yes,  G.  F.,  dear,  there  is  a  reason.  You  see,  Pam  is 
looking  very  pale  to-night,  and  dreadfully  like  Cally,  and 
as  she  is  to  go  to  her  first  ball  she  wants  to  look  well." 

"  The  emerald  will  be  very  unbecoming,  if  you  are  pale." 

"  Yes.  It  will  make  me  paler,  but  people  will  think  that 
it  is  it  that  makes  me  pale,  do  you  see  ?  " 

"  I  see.     And  it  will  not  be  the  emerald  ?  " 

"  Noj  grandfather." 

351 


352  P  A  M 

"  I  wonder,"  the  old  man  leaned  over  and  laid  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder  as  he  spoke,  "  I  wonder,  Pam,  whether 
you  had  not  better  tell  me  what  it  is  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer,  and  he  went  on,  a  little  wistfully, 
"  I  don't  want  to  force  your  confidence,  my  dear,  but, — we 
have  always  been  good  friends." 

"  Grandfather,"  she  returned,  looking  at  him,  "  it  is  this: 
Mr.  Peele  asked  me  to  marry  him  this  afternoon,  and  I 
refused." 

"  Peele!  "  She  did  not  notice  that  the  old  man  expressed 
no  surprise. 

"  Yes." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  then  Pam  added  quietly, 
"  That's  why.  May  I  have  the  emerald  ?  " 

"  You  may  have  all  the  emeralds  if  you  want  'em.  Or 
perhaps — perhaps  you'd  rather  have  the  diamonds,  my 
dear?" 

The  girl  rose,  and  burst  into  a  merry  laugh.  "  Oh,  grand- 
father, what  a  lamb  you  are!  No,  thank  you,  dearest  old 
man,  I  don't  want  the  diamonds,  and  I'm  glad  I  told  you, 
but  we  won't  say  any  more  about  it." 

"  No,"  returned  Lord  Yeoland  promptly,  "  not  a  word." 

Pam  held  out  her  hand,  grateful  for  his  forbearance,  and 
they  shook  hands  gravely,  as  two  men  might  have  done. 
Then  she  flung  the  tail  of  her  gown  over  her  arm  and  went 
to  the  door.  "  Will  you  send  ft  up  to  my  room  ?  Or  shall 
Pilly  fetch  it?" 

"  Pilgrim  had  better  fetch  it,  my  dear." 

When  he  was  alone  Lord  Yeoland  sat  for  a  long  time 
staring  at  the  fire.  He  had  asked  no  questions  and  made 
no  protest,  but  Pam's  confirmation  of  the  story  he  had  heard 
that  morning  had  made  him  sad.  His  plans  for  the  girl  had 
been  many,  and  he  now  knew  instinctively  that  they  had  come 
to  naught. 


P  A  M  353 

It  had  been  quite  out  of  his  reckoning  that  the  girl  should 
fall  in  love  with  a  man  she  couldn't  marry,  but  even  if  he 
had  been  unprovided  with  data  on  the  subject,  one  look  at 
her  white  face  would  have  been  sufficient  to  convince  him 
that  she  did  love  Peele. 

When  Pilgrim  came  in  for  the  jewel,  which  the  old  man 
had  had  brought  to  him,  she  found  him  still  brooding  over  the 
fire. 

"  You  were  right,  Jane,"  he  said  without  looking  up ; 
"  she  has  told  me  herself." 

"Oh,  my  Lord,  told  you  herself!  My  poor  Pam,  my 
child,  my  dearie!  " 

"  Yes.  But  you  were  wrong,  as  I  told  you,  about  Mr. 
— about  the  gentleman  in  question.  He  asked  her  to  marry 
him  and  she  refused.  That  was  all." 

Pilgrim  clasped  her  hands  and  gave  a  sort  of  groan  of 
relief.  "  Thank  God,  my  Lord,  thank  God !  I  am  an  old 
fool,  your  Lordship,  ever  to  think  anything  else  was  possible, 
but  I  'ave  seen  'ow  wre  were  looked  askant  at  always,  and 
I've  'card  talk  among  the  servants,  and  then,  at  Torpington, 
she  a-goin'  in  'er  hinnocence  to  'is  very  'ouse  every  day! 
And  'er  Ladyship's  maid  talking  about  the  engagement " 

The  poor  woman's  voice  broke,  and  she  pressed  one  bony 
hand  hard  to  her  mouth  to  hide  its  trembling. 

Lord  Yeoland  looked  at  her  kindly.  "  Well,  well,  my 
good  creature,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  and  holding  up  a 
slender  gold  fillet,  on  which  gleamed  a  great  pear-shaped 
cabochon  emerald,  "  take  this  up  to  her,  and  just  tell  her, 
will  you,  that  she  is  to — to  keep  it." 

"Oh,  my  Lord!  'Ow  glad  she  will  be !  Thank  you,  my 
Lord,  that  is,  I  'ave  no  business  to  thank  your  Lordship, 
but " 

The  old  man  waved  his  hand  at  her  in  gentle  impa- 
tience. 


354  PAM 

"  There,  there,  Jane,  that  will  do,  I  quite  understand.  And 
I  wish  to  tell  you  that  I  appreciate  all  your  love  for  and 
care  of  my  grand-daughter.  I — I  shall  provide  for  your 
old  age.  Now  please  go,"  he  added  hastily,  pointing  to  the 
door.  "  I  don't  wish  for  any  thanks;  you  are  a  faithful  ser- 
vant and  friend,  and  I  shall  provide  for  you.  Just  ring  for 
my  man,  will  you  ?  " 

Pilgrim  rushed  from  the  room,  to  burst  into  tears  in  the 
hall,  so  that,  when  she  went  to  Pam,  that  young  lady  turned 
from  her  with  a  gesture  of  despair.  "  Great  heavens,  Pilly, 
you  have  been  crying  and  your  nose  is  as  red  as  Evelyn's 
was!  I  seem  to  be  haunted  by  fiery-eyed,,  glossy-faced 
weeping-willows  to-day!  Ah,  you  have  it.  Give  it  to  me." 

She  had  arranged  her  hair  something  in  the  way  the 
Parisian  hair-dresser  had  tried  to  teach  Pilgrim,  parted  and 
rolled  back  into  a  soft  knot  on  the  nape  of  her  neck;  it 
looked,  for  some  reason,  lighter,  done  this  way,  and  the 
waves  over  her  ears  were  shot  with  coppery  red. 

"  The  emerald  is  so  big  no  one  will  believe  it's  real," 
she  observed,  settling  the  fillet  firmly  on  her  head  and 
securing  it.  "  Makes  me  pale,  too,  doesn't  it?  "  she  added, 
watching  the  maid's  swollen  face  in  the  glass. 

"  You  are  pale,  anyway,  to-night,  Pam,"  Pilgrim  answered, 
laying  one  hand  on  the  girl's  bare  shoulder  with  unwonted 
tenderness. 

"Am  I?  Hard  luck,  at  my  first  ball,  isn't  it?  How- 
ever, I  am  never  pretty,  so  it  doesn't  much  matter." 

"  Never  pretty !  you  aren't  a  wax  doll,  like  some,  if  that's 
what  you  mean." 

"  It  is.  Exactly  what  I  mean.  Has  my  bouquet  come 
up?" 

"  It's  here,  I'm  just  opening  the  paper.  Oh,  Pam — Miss 
Pam,  I  mean, — whatever  possessed  you  to  order  them  nasty 
snaky  things !  " 


P  A  M  355 

The  despised  flowers  were  exquisite  pale-green  orchids 
splashed  with  velvety  brown  and  white  streaks. 

Pam  laughed.  "  You  goose,  it  took  half  an  hour's  coaxing, 
and  an  order  from  grandfather,  to  get  them  out  of 
McWhirter !  They  are  his  very  finest  orchids !  " 

"  But  they  are  green,  and  you  will  look  like  a  ghost!  " 

"  Silly  Pilly!  I  shall  be  a  dream  of  beauty.  Now,  hurry 
up  and  dress  me,  or  I'll  be  late  for  dinner!  " 

Half  an  hour  later  the  young  girl  knocked  at  the 
Duchess's  door,  and  went  into  the  room  where  her  Grace 
was  deep  in  the  mysteries  of  the  toilet  of  the  young-looking 
woman  of  sixty-five. 

Several  red  curls  lay  on  the  dressing-table,  and  rouge  pots 
and  powder-boxes  yawned  boldly  in  the  electric  lights,  but 
the  Duchess  was  quite  unconcerned  over  the  exposure. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  my  dear,"  she  said  sociably,  powdering 
her  nose.  "  What  a  beautiful  frock.  Just  go  into  the  other 
room  for  a  minute,  will  you,"  she  added  to  her  maid,  going 
on  as  the  door  closed :  "  She'll  glue  her  ear  to  the  keyhole, 
but  never  mind.  One  has  to  pretend  to  a  certain  reserve. 
Pam,  I  have  news  for  you !  " 

"  Have  you?  "  Pam  looked  at  her  with  brave  eyes,  but 
her  hands  trembled  as  she  smoothed  her  gloves. 

"  Yes.  About  Henny.  They  are  to  be  married  in  three 
weeks!  What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"  I  am  very  glad." 

"  And  so  am  I !  Henny  is  a  queer  mortal,  not  a  bit  like 
me,  and  I  am  always  tempted  to  tease  her,  but  I  am  glad.  I 
think  Jim  may  be  happier,  too,  when  they  are  once  married. 
He  is  going  out  in  Albert  Miller's  Commission  the  week 
after  the  wedding,  but  that  can't  be  helped." 

Pam  stared.     "  But  she  will  go  with  him!  " 

"Henny?  To  South  Africa?  Not  she,  my  dear.  She 
is  a  wretched  sailor  and  can't  stand  roughing  it  at  all.  She 


356  P  AM 

will  stay  at  home  and  get  the  house  ready.  They  ar\,  to 
have  my  house  in  Berkeley  Square.  The  time  will  pass 
quickly  enough,  particularly  as  they  are  to  have  new  pWimb- 
ing  put  in.  How's  my  complexion  ?  " 

Pam  examined  her  critically.  "I'd  rub  off  a  bit  xmder 
your  right  eye.  Yes,  that's  better;  well,  I'll  go  dowvi  and 
not  bother  you.  I  am  very  glad,  Duchess." 

The  dressing-room  was  empty  when  she  entered  It,  but 
a  moment  later  Sir  Henry  Pockington  and  Peele  cam*  in. 

"  My  uncle  was  a  little  worse  this  evening,  Sir  Henry," 
Pam  explained,  shaking  hands  with  him,  "  so  my  aunt  is  late. 
How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Peele?  " 

"  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Yeoland  ?  " 

Sir  Henry,  of  whom  Pam  had  always  been  rather  a  pet, 
looked  at  her  admiringly.  "  Well,  Miss  Pam  I  suppose 
you  will  allow  me  to  observe  that  you  are  looking  lovely. 
Lovely,  by  Jove !  " 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so.  My  maid  told  me  the  emerald 
and  orchids  made  me  too  pale,"  she  returned,  with  civil  care- 
lessness. 

"  Not  a  bit,  not  a  bit.  I  hate  your  apple-fated  women, 
don't  you,  Peele?" 

"  I  do  indeed." 

"  And  I  must  say,"  Sir  Henry  went  on,  putting  on  feis 
rimless  pince-nez  and  looking  down  at  the  top  of  the  girl's 
head,  "  that  I  never  saw  such  hair  in  my  life!  " 

Pam  laughed.  "  Here  comes  Aunt  Rosamund,"  she  said, 
"  and  it  is  time  she  did.  Sir  Henry  is  spoiling  me  most 
dreadfully,  Aunt  Rosamund." 

Mrs.  Maxse,  plainer  than  ever  in  her  stone-coloured  satin 
gown,  her  eyes  swollen  with  tears,  laughed  nervously. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Peele!  "  she  cried,  shaking  hands  with  the  elder 
man,  "  my  father  has  just  told  me  the  news.  How  delight- 
ful it  is!" 


P  A  M  357 

Pam  passed  her  arm  affectionately  through  that  of  the 
poor  woman  who  had  lost  her  only  comfort.  "  Doesn't  she 
look  as  though  weddings  delighted  her  ? "  the  girl  asked 
gently.  "  Poor  Aunt  Rosamund,  just  think  how  soon  she 
will  be  back!" 

Then,  as  more  guests  arrived,  she  went  to  the  window 
near  which  Peele  was  standing,  looking  out  into  the  rose- 
garden,  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  very  happy,"  she  said  simply. 

"  Thanks."  He  did  not  take  her  hand,  nor  did  he  look  at 
her  as  he  spoke. 

"  You  are  not  angry  with  me?  " 

He  turned,  his  face  expressionless.  "Angry?"  he  re- 
peated coldly.  "  Certainly  not.  Why  should  I'  be  angry? 
You  are  a  very  wise  womaa ;  anything  else  would  have  been 
pitiable  folly." 

Passing  her,  he  sauntered  through  the  open  window,  and 
a  moment  later,  as  she  stood  talking  to  the  Lady  Henrietta, 
he  came  back,  carefully  breaking  the  thorn  off  a  rose  he  had 
picked,  and  then  putting  it  in  his  coat. 


CHAPTER  VI 


TO  Lord  Yeoland's  unspeakable  and  unspoken  relief,  Pam 
not  only  did  not  recur  to  the  subject  of  Peele,  nor  did  she 
visibly  pine.  The  change  in  her  was  so  slight  as  to  be 
unnoticed  by  every  one  except  her  grandfather  and  Pil- 
grim, and  to  comfort  them  at  first  by  the  thought  that  she 
possibly  did  not  much  care,  after  all. 

Pilgrim,  indeed,  had,  in  her  satisfaction  on  hearing  of 
Peele's  proposal,  for  a  time  considered  everything  to  be  in 
order;  for,  according  to  the  good  woman's  simple  ethics,  if 
Pam  had  wanted  Peele  she'd  have  taken  him.  But  the 
maid's  eyes  were  sharper  than  those  of  many  mothers,  and 
several  small  signs  observed  by  her  combined  little  by  little 
to  teach  her  that,  bravely  as  she  did  it,  Pam  had  had  a  serious 
blow,  and  still  suffered  under  it. 

The  girl  laid  awake  at  night  instead  of  sleeping,  and  her 
eyes,  more  like  the  monkey's  than  ever,  were  heavy.  She 
was  very  cheerful,  reading  aloud  to  Dick  Maxse,  who  was 
a  little  better,  playing  cards  with  him,  and  trying,  in  a 
boyish  way  that  was  not  without  a  shade  of  pathos,  to  do 
for  her  aunt  various  little  things  that  had  always  fallen  to 
Evelyn's  share. 

Every  morning  she  read  the  Times  to  her  grandfather, 
and  he  once  saw  how,  after  reading  with  unfaltering  voice 
a  letter  on  the  South  African  Commission  in  which  much 
was  said  of  James  Peele,  every  bit  of  colour  left  her 
face. 

358 


P  A  M  359 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  as  she  went  on  to  the  next 
article;  it  was,  after  all,  then,  as  serious  as  he  had  at  first 
thought,  but  he  did  not  speak  of  it. 

A  week  had  passed,  after  the  wedding,  and  Ratty  had  gone 
back  to  Oxford,  after  a  final  interview  with  his  cousin  in 
which  his  attitude  had  been  one  of  despair  mixed  with  pat- 
ronage, and  hers  one  of  rather  unusual  patience.  "  I  am 
sorry,  Ratty,"  she  said,  at  parting,  "  but  as  I  couldn't  ever 
marry  you  under  any  consideration  whatever,  I  really  think 
you'd  better  stop  thinking  of  it." 

"  Just  like  a  girl.  You  always  were  an  idiot,  Pam !  " 
returned  the  swain,  sending  a  shower  of  gravel  over  the 
lawn  with  a  savage  kick,  "  as  if  I  could  stop  thinking 
of  it!" 

The  girl  laughed.  "  Then  try  to  remember  how  you 
always  despised  me,  that  ought  to  be  a  comfort.  Think 
what  an  idiot  I  am  and  always  was;  how  thin  I  am;  how 
much  I  look  like  Cally.  You  surely,  in  your  sane  moments, 
don't  want  a  wife  who  looks  like  that,  do  you  ?  " 

Caliban,  who  came  hirpling  along  over  the  grass  towards 
her,  after  a  short  voyage  of  discovery  in  the  shrubbery,  and 
muttering  with  many  grimaces,  in  the  usual  disillusion  of 
explorers,  was  certainly  not  attractive,  and  Ratty,  burying 
his  hands  in  his  trousers  pockets,  burst  into  reluctant 
laughter. 

"  You  are  a  wonder,  Pam !  I  declare,  I  don't  believe 
there's  another  like  you  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  There 
are  a  dozen  girls,  even  in  this  dead-and-alive  neighbourhood, 
who  are  a  thousand  times  prettier  than  you,  and  who  can 
play,  or  paint,  and  all  that,  while  you  can't  do  a  thing,  and 
^et  a  fellow  can't  get  you  out  of  his  head !  " 

Pam  looked  up  suddenly  from  her  occupation  of  stroking 
Caliban,  her  eyes  alight  with  interest.  "  Really,  Ratty  ? 
Do  you  honestly  think  that — that  a  fellow  can't  get  me 


360  P  A  M 

out  of  his  head?  I  mean,  that  I  should  be  hard  to  forget 
altogether?" 

Ratty  shrugged  his  shoulders,  a  trick  he  had  learned 
from  the  girl  herself.  "  If  you  are  thinking  of  Lassels," 
he  returned,  with  sullen  malice,  "  I  don't  think  that  his 
attentions  at  the  ball  meant  much.  I'm  a  fool  about  you, 
sometimes,  but  Lassels  is  going  to  be  the  Marquis  of  Bud- 
combe,  my  good  girl,  you  must  remember." 

She  raised  her  eye-brows,  looking  at  him  with  a  gentle 
scorn  that  made  him  uncomfortable.  "  Try  not  to  be  a 
cad,  Ratty,"  she  said  quietly,  holding  out  her  hand.  "  The 
dog-cart  is  there,  and  Aunt  Rosamund  looking  for  you. 
Good-bye." 

Thus,  the  household  diminished  by  two,  the  week  passed. 

Dick  Maxse,  much  afflicted  by  the  fact  that  his  wife, 
bereft  of  her  daughter,  now  devoted  more  of  her  time  to 
him  than  ever  before,  sought  distraction  in  a  mild  flirtation 
with  one  of  his  nurses,  a  pretty  young  woman  from  St. 
Thomas's;  Lord  Yeoland  had  two  bad  days,  and  was  better 
again ;  Pam  took  long  walks  in  the  late  afternoons  and  passed 
the  rest  of  her  time  with  one  or  the  other  of  her  relatives; 
Pilgrim  studied  her  mistress  with  a  humble  zeal  that  sat 
oddly  on  her  gaunt  face. 

One  day  Pam  and  Maxse  had  what  the  suffering  ne'er- 
do-weel  call  a  "naked-soul  talk." 

"  But  Miss  Perry  is  pretty,"  he  protested  innocently,  in 
reply  to  a  vigorous  expostulation  from  the  girl. 

"  Of  course  she  is  pretty,  but — oh,  well,  Uncle  Dick,  for 
a  man  who  says  he  is  going  to  live  only  six  months,  you 
really  are  pretty  horrid." 

"  Why  am  I  horrid  ?  "  he  persisted,  with  one  of  his  old 
graceless  grins.  "What  on  earth  do  I  do?" 

"  Well,  couldn't  you  possibly  take  your  drops  without 
kissing  her  hand?  " 


P  A  M  361 

Pam,  very  erect  in  a  high-backed  chair,  Caliban  in  her 
arms,  looked  at  him  seriously  as  she  spoke,  and  he  turned 
a  little  so  that  he  could  see  her  at  his  ease. 

"  Without  kissing  her  hand?  Well,  yes;  if  you  put  it  in 
that  way,  I  suppose  I  could,  but  then,  why  should  I  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  more  dignified  ?  " 

He  burst  out  laughing.  "  Dignified !  My  dear  Amelia, 
can  you  imagine,  in  your  wildest  flights  of  imagination, 
Richard  Allison  Joyce  Maxse  being  dignified  ?  " 

"  I  can  imagine  him  trying,"  she  answered  drily. 

"  Then  you  can  do  more  than  I  can,  my  dear.  Why, 
look  here,  Pam,  I'll  be  as  dead  as  Queen  Anne  in  six  months' 
time,  and  they'll  arrange  me  nicely  in  a  coffin,  with  flowers 
and  all  that,  and  then  what  will  happen?  The  'dignity  of 
death,'  as  poets  say,  will  turn  away  from  me,  and  there 
won't  be  one  bit  of  'majesty '  or  '  peace  '  or  any  other  of 
the  usual  nice  things  about  me.  I'll  look  just  as  I  do  now 
when  I'm  asleep — like  a  poor  devil  who  has  had  his  day, 
and  done  all  those  things  he  ought  not  to  have  done.  And 
to  go  back  to  Miss  Perry  (first  name  Daisy!)"  he  resumed, 
with  unabashed  cheeriness.  "  I've  kissed  her  hand  for  a 
week  now,  and  I  couldn't  stop  or  it  would  hurt  her  feelings." 

Pam  rose.  "  Well,  at  least  be  careful  not  to  hurt  Aunt 
Rosamund's  feelings;  let  her  have  some  nice  things  to  remem- 
ber about  you." 

"  '  Sweet  as  remembered  kisses,  after  death.' "  he 
chuckled,  as  she  left  the  room. 

On  her  way  downstairs  she  met  a  servant  with  some 
letters  for  her,  and  going  into  the  library  sat  down  by  an 
open  window  and  read  them. 

The  first  was  a  short  note  from  her  mother,  written  from 
St.  Jean  de  Luz,  and  containing  the  news  that  she  and 
Sacheverel  were  thinking  of  going  to  Japan  in  a  yacht  with 
some  friends. 


362  P  A  M 

Pam  gave  a  short  laugh,  which  was  not  mirthful,  and 
took  up  her  second  letter,  which  was  from  the  Duchess: 

"  DEAR  PAM  :  Thanks  so  much  for  sending  my  slippers. 
That  creature  forgets  everything.  I  am  a  wreck,  and  no 
rouge  can  hide  the  ravages  made  by  fatigue  in  flying  about 
getting  Henrietta's  things.  The  wedding,  of  course,  is  to 
be  very  quiet,  but  I  want  you  to  come,  and  to  stay  with 
me  until  it  is  over.  Will  you?  It  is  quite  improper  of 
me  to  want  you,  you  know.  I  ought  to  ask  Maria's  Alice, 
but  the  child  bites  her  nails  and  drives  me  mad,  whereas 
you  and  I  always  agree.  You  may  bring  your  suite,  '  Pilly 
and  Cally,'  with  you,  and  we'll  do  some  theatres  incog.,  if 
you  like.  Now  don't  rush  off  and  visit  some  person  in 
Derbyshire  this  time,  please,  or  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again. 
My  love  to  your  Grandfather  and  tell  him  that  I  will  take 
good  care  of  you.  "  Yours  affectionately, 

"  ELIZA  WIGHT." 

Pam  read  this  letter  twice,  and  then  opened  the  last, 
which  was  from  Burke: 

"DEAR  PAM:  Madame  Ravaglia  is  dead,  and  write  to 
tell  you,  as  she  asked  me  to  do.  She  also  gave  me  the  en- 
closed note  for  you.  I  have  been  a  good  deal  with  her  of 
late,  and  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  towards  the  last  she  did 
not  suffer  at  all.  Last  night  I  was  there  when  the  priest 
came  and  gave  her  extreme  unction.  She  seemed  glad  to 
take  communion,  and  told  me  that  she  was  not  afraid  to  die. 
I  am  feeling  rather  badly  about  it,  for  she  was  a  good  friend 
to  me,  and  at  my  age  one  doesn't  easily  make  friends. 
Thanks  for  your  letter.  I  am  glad  my  telegram  relieved 
your  mind.  Of  course  I  shall  never  trouble  you  again,  and 
I  hope  with  all  my  heart  that  you  may  be  happy.  She  did 


P  A  M  363 

not  tell  me  who  the  man  is,  and  I  took  it  for  granted  it  must 
be  Peele,  until  I  saw  in  a  paper  this  morning  the  announce- 
ment of  the  day  of  his  marriage  with  some  one  else.  Who- 
ever he  may  be  I  hope  you  will  be  happy,  and  my  telegram 
holds  good.  The  sale  of  poor  Madame  Ravaglia's  things 
is  going  on,  and  there  will  be  a  good  deal  of  money,  all  of 
which  goes  to  the  Church,  I  believe.  She  left  her  rings  to 
you,  did  you  know? 

"  Good-bye,  then ;  if  you  knew  how  I  love  you  you  would 
be  sorry  for  me.  Remember,  always,  that  if  you  ever  want 
me  I  will  come,  no  matter  where  I  am.  You  know  my 
banker's  address.  "  CHARNLEY  BURKE." 

The  letter  was  badly  written,  as  well  as  awkwardly 
expressed,  and  as  Burke,  as  a  rule,  was  voluble  enough,  she 
knew  what  his  nervousness  meant.  And  Ravaglia  was  dead. 
It  was  not  a  shock,  but  it  was  an  added  loneliness. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  girl  went  out  on  the  terrace, 
where  her  grandfather  sat  near  the  spot  where  he  had  first 
received  her,  years  ago. 

"  Grandfather,"  she  began  abruptly,  "  I  want  you  to  do 
something  for  me.  Not  a  jewel  this  time;  worse;  I  mean 
harder  for  you." 

"What  is  it,  Pam?" 

"  The  Duchess  wants  me  to  go  to  the  wedding,  and  to 
stay  with  her  afterwards.  Of  course  I  can't,  and  so  I  want 
you  to  be  ill,  and  need  a  change  of  air,  and  go  away  with  me, 
somewhere  too  far  for  me  to  go  to  town.  Will  you?  " 

"  Of  course  I  will,  my  dear.  We'll  go  to  the  sea  or 
somewhere.  To  Cornwall,  for  instance." 

"  You  are  very  good  to  me,  grandfather." 

"  I  want  to  be,  Pam.  So  that's  settled.  I'll  be  worse  in 
the  night,  and  to-morrow  I'll  make  Harris  send  me  to 
Cornwall." 


364  P  AM 

Pam  went  close  to  him  and  laid  one  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
while  her  face  was  turned  towards  the  terrace  below. 
"  Just  there  it  was,"  she  said  slowly,  her  voice  deepening, 
"  that  I  came  up  the  path,  years  ago,  with  poor  old  Cally 
in  my  arms.  I  remember  it  very  well.  You  said,  '  Hovr 
do  you  do,  my  dear?  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you.'  " 

"  Yes,  and  then,  a  moment  later,  you  informed  me  that 
you  were  at  the  ugly  age,"  he  answered  lightly,  for  some- 
thing in  her  voice  made  him  sad. 

"  You  were  very  good  to  me,  grandfather,  from  the 
first,"  she  went  on,  taking  no  notice  of  his  interruption, 
"  and  you  have  always  been  good.  I  have  never  tried  to 
thank  you,  and  I  have  not  been  very  good  to  you." 

"  There  is  no  need  of  thanks,  my  dear,  and  the  only  thing 
I  have  against  you  is  that  you  did  not  always  stay  with  me. 
You  have  made  my  life  much  pleasanter  than  it  could  have 
been  without  you,  Pam." 

"  Have  I,  grandfather?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Then  you  will  let  me  stay  always,  won't  you?"  she 
asked,  turning  at  last,  and  looking  at  him  with  moist  eyes 
that  suddenly  reminded  him  that  he  had  never  seen  her 
cry. 

"  Let  you  stay?  I  will  not  let  you  go,  Pam;  neither  to 
the  Duchess  nor  to  any  one  else." 

"  No  one  else  wants  me,"  she  said,  with  a  smile.  Then 
very  quickly  she  stooped,  kissed  him,  and  was  off  like  an 
arrow,  speeding  down  the  path  until  she  was  lost  to  view 
at  a  turning  among  the  trees. 

Lord    Yeoland's    eyes    were    wet    as    she    disappeared 
"  Damn  that  fellow!  "  he  said  aloud. 


CHAPTER  VII 


TWO  days  later  Lord  Yeoland,  Pam,  Pilgrim,  Jenkins, 
the  valet,  and  Caliban  were  settled  in  an  hotel  on  the 
Cornish  coast  Hot  far  from  Penzance.  It  was  a  delightful 
spot,  surrounded  by  beautiful  drives,  and  the  air  was  full 
of  the  music  of  the  waves  as  they  boomed  on  the  great  rocks 
below. 

"  An  excellent  place  for  an  invalid,  Pam  ?  "  the  old  man 
asked  solemnly,  while  his  servant  settled  him  in  a  sheltered 
corner  of  the  garden,  the  day  after  their  arrival.  "  I  de- 
clare I  feel  better  already.  You  must  write  and  tell  your 
aunt  the  good  news."  Pam  nodded,  as  her  grandfather 
winked  over  the  back  of  Jenkins  as  that  functionary  tucked 
the  plaid  carefully  about  his  master's  legs,  and  rose,  with 
a  pleased  glance  at  the  wicked  old  gentleman's  beaming  face. 

The  old  man  had  thoroughly  entered  into  the  spirit  of 
the  little  comedy.  In  the  night  following  his  talk  with  Pam 
on  the  terrace  he  had  had  a  mysterious  seizure  involving 
numerous  perplexingly  irreconcilable  symptoms,  and  all  the 
next  day  new  ones  had  developed.  "  I  can't  explain,"  he 
said  irritably  to  the  doctor,  who  was  feeling  his  pulse  for 
the  twentieth  time.  "  It  was  a  tremendous  flutter,  and  a 
sharp  pain,  and  then  I  think  I  fainted.  Didn't  I  faint, 
Jenkins?  " 

"  Nearly,  M'Lud.  The  brandy  just  saved  your  Lordship 
from  quite  going  off,"  returned  the  faithful  servant,  who 
had  a  turn  for  dramatic  narration.  "  His  Lordship's  lips 
was  blue  as  indigo,  sir,"  he  added  to  the  doctor,  "  and  'is 

365 


366  P  A  M 

'ands  like  ice.  'Is  Lordship  'ad  'orrible  pain  in  'is  stummick, 
too,  afterwards,  and  electric  shocks  in  'is  spinal  cord.  '  Jen- 
kins,' 'is  Lordship  said  to  me,  '  it's  my  spinal  cord,  sure.'  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  spinal  cord  very  bad,  Harris,"  the  old  man 
added,  winking  at  Pam  past  Mrs.  Maxse,  who  stood  with 
anxiously  fluttering  hands  by  the  bed. 

Harris,  who  was  a  rather  clever  man,  nodded  without 
speaking.  Knowing  that  Lord  Yeoland's  heart,  spinal  cord, 
and  temperature  were  in  as  good  order  as  usual,  he  was 
not  alarmed,  but  chronic  gout  may  show  itself  in  many 
ways,  and  he  had  no  reason  for  suspecting  his  patient  of 
malingering, 

Cornwall  being  suggested  by  the  invalid  himself,  the 
doctor  agreed  at  once.  Sea  air  might  do  gout  good;  that 
nothing  else  did  was  certain,  and  as  Cornwall  seemed  to  be 
the  remedy  for  which  Lord  Yeoland  yearned,  to  Cornwall 
he  was  sent. 

Mr.  Maxse  earnestly  urged  his  father-in-law  to  take  one 
of  his  nurses  (not  Miss  Perry)  with  him,  but  the  old  man 
rebelled  at  this  idea,  protesting  that  Jenkins  understood 
him  better  than  any  strange  woman  could,  so  Jenkins,  very 
proud  of  his  charge,  and  armed  with  divers  bottles  against 
a  renewal  of  his  Lordship's  strange  attack,  assumed  his 
new  honours. 

"  I  wonder,"  Lord  Yeoland  remarked  thoughtfully,  when 
the  servant  had  left  him  alone  with  Pam,  "  whether  Pilgrim 
is  worried  about  me?  " 

"  I  think,  between  you  and  me,"  the  girl  returned,  with 
a  laugh,  "  that  Pilgrim  strongly  suspects  you  of  being  a 
fraud,  G.  F." 

"  I  agree  with  you.  There  is  suspicion  in  her  eyes.  And 
a  cold  fishy  eye  it  is,  too.  Pilgrim  is  excellent,  Pam,  but 
she  is  not  an  irresistible  woman." 

"  Poor  Pilly!    No,  she  is  not.    Just  look  at  that  fuchsia, 


P  A  M  367 

isn't  it  exquisite?  I  suppose  all  the  bells  ring  at  midnight, 
and  make  the  most  lovely  music!  " 

"  It's  a  beautiful  place,  Pam.  Your  friend  Ravaglia 
used  to  have  a  house  near  here,  by  the  way,  poor  soul !  " 

"Did  she?    Where?" 

"  I  don't  know  exactly,  but  in  this  neighbourhood  some- 
where." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  then  Pam  said  suddenly, 
"  G.  F.,  tell  me  about  her,  won't  you?  She  told  me  once 
that  somebody  would  tell  me  her  story  some  day,  and  I'd 
like  to  hear  it." 

"  Her  story !  Poor  soul,  she  had  dozens,"  answered  the 
old  man,  picking  a  rose  from  the  wall  near  him,  and  sniffing 
at  it. 

"  But  her  real  one?    Every  one  must  have  a  real  story." 

"  Well,  yes.  Years  ago,  when  she  was  living  with  her 
husband,  a  little  snuffy  avvocato  in  Sicily,  she  did  some- 
thing wrong.  Then  she  ran  away  from  her  husband,  and 
from  the  other  man,  too,  and  went  on  the  stage.  She  had 
no  influence,  she  was  not  pretty,  and  for  years  no  one 
heard  of  her.  She  has  told  me,  and  I  believe  her,  that 
during  those  years  her  life  was  irreproachable.  At  last, 
suddenly,  she  became  famous.  And  when  she  came  to  Lon- 
don the  first  time  she  met  a  man,  a  friend  of  mine.  They 
fell  in  love  with  each  other.  Tremendously.  It  was  like," 
he  went  on  thoughtfully,  forgetful  that  he  was  speaking 
to  a  child  of  eighteen,  "  a  race ;  as  if  each  of  them  wished 
to  love  more  than  the  other.  He  found  out  that  there  was 
nothing  known  against  her,  and — he  was  a  man  of  higher 
rank  than  I — wanted  to  marry  her.  Then  she  told  him. 
Told  him  of  the  old  days  in  Sicily.  You  understand  ?  " 
He  broke  off,  looking  sharply  at  his  hearer  who  sat  quite 
motionless,  listening  to  him. 

"  Yes,  I  understand." 


368  P  A  M 

"  Well,  he  didn't  marry  her,  of  course.  That  was  all. 
H'm!  It's  a  sad  story.  I,  personally,  always  respected  her 
for  telling  him." 

Pam  rested  one  elbow  on  her  knee,  and  her  chin  in  her 
hand,  looking  up  at  him.  "  Whose  was  the  child  ?  "  she 
asked.  "  The  little  girl  who  died  ?" 

"  Oh,  that  was  his,  my  friend's.     I  didn't  know  she  died." 

"  Yes.  And  then  what  happened  afterwards,  grand- 
father?" 

"  H'm!  Well,  you  see,  my  friend  married  later.  Had 
to  have  an  heir,  of  course,  and  then  she,  Ravaglia,  went 
to  pieces.  It  was  a  great  pity." 

"  Yes.  It  was  a  great  pity.  Grandfather,  you  wrote  to 
ask  her  to — to  go  away  from  me?  That  time  in  Aix." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  I  did.  Her  reputation  was,  with  perfect 
justice,  outrageous.  She  was  very  nice  about  doing  as  I 
asked  her." 

"Yes.  She  went  away  and  I  never  saw  her  again  until 
the  other  day  in  Paris.  And  now  she  is  dead." 

"  Yes,  God  rest  her  soul,"  he  added,  after  a  pause. 

Pam  stared.  "  That  is  what  the  Catholics  say,"  she  com- 
mented. 

"  Yes,  but  it  does  not  hurt  a  heathen  to  say  it,  too." 

It  was  a  perfect  morning,  and  the  warm  air,  full  of  the 
sea-tang,  was  sweet  with  the  scent  of  growing  things.  A 
bee  buzzed  drowsily  among  the  gilly-flowers :  a  bird  sang 
in  an  apple-tree. 

For  several  minutes  Lord  Yeoland  and  his  grand-daughter 
were  both  silent,  and  then,  without  changing  her  position, 
the  young  girl  spoke. 

"  G.  F.,  I  want  to  tell  you  about  Mr.  Peele." 

"  If  you  wish  to,  my  dear.  Otherwise,  it  is  not  at  all 
necessary." 

"  I  do  wish  to.     Because  you  think  you  understand,  but 


P  A  M  369 

you  don't.  You  see  it  was  this  way.  When  I  was  at 
Torpington,  he  was  ill — that  is,  overworked,  and  nearly 
ill — and  I  used  to  go  to  see  him  at  his  house.  It  was  silly, 
but  it  didn't  seem  so  then,  somehow.  And  he  was  very 
good  to  me,  and  we  had  such  good  times  together.  Then 
I  went  away,  to  Houlgate,  and  mother  was  not  well  all 
the  summer,  and  I  wrote  to  him  (he  had  asked  me  to,  of 
course)  and  he  never  answered,  and  I  was  angry  with  him. 
Mother's  illness  made  me  nearly  forget  all  about  him, 
though,  and — you  know  about  the  wedding.  Well,"  she 
paused,  but  did  not  move,  her  dark  eyes  full  of  the  sunlight 
as  she  looked  steadily  at  the  old  man,  whose  lips  were 
trembling  with  his  sudden  overwhelming  realisation  of  her 
great  youth,  as  she  told  him  her  story,  all  in  the  past  tense. 
"  That  evening  after  the  wedding  I  was  lonely,  somehow, 
and  I  went  for  a  swim  to  amuse  myself.  When  I  came  up 
from  the  sea,  there  he  was,  in  our  grounds,  as  if  he  had 
fallen  from  the  sky.  And  we  had  supper  together,  and  I 
was  very  happy,  but  I  didn't  know  why.  Really,  I  didn't, 
G.  F.  But  when  it  was  time  for  him  to  go,  then  I  suddenly 
knew,  and  so  did  he.  He  kissed  me.  Once." 

Again  she  paused.  "  He  said  it  was  Arcadia.  That  is 
the  name  of  our  villa,  you  know.  And  he  said  that  he 
could  not  stay.  That  was  because  he  was  engaged.  I  don't 
know  whether  I  ever  told  you,  grandfather,"  she  went  on 
with  a  change  of  tone  that  startled  him  like  an  abrupt 
change  of  key  in  a  song,  "  that  I  don't  believe  in  marriage." 

"  Yes,  you  once  told  me." 

"  Well,  I  had  told  him,  too.  And  Madame  Ravaglia 
had  once  said  to  me  something  about  the  man  I  should 
some  day  love,  and  that  he  would  have  a  right  to  my  past, 
as  well  as  to  my  future.  (That  was  what  she  meant,  my 
poor  dear,  what  you  told  me,  you  know!)  Well,  in  Tor- 
pington he  had  teased  me  about  it,  about  my  '  him,'  and 


370  P  A  M 

because  I  said  it  was  a  mistake  to  marry.  And  then,  that 
evening  after  the  wedding,  he  talked  about  it  again.  And 
when  he  kissed  me,  then  I  knew  that  we  loved  each  other. 
He  didn't  come  the  next  day,  and  I  forgot  all  about  Lady 
Henny.  It  seemed  to  me  that — well — I  simply  didn't  think 
of  her  at  all.  But  when  I  dined  with  them  all  the  next 
evening,  then  I  remembered,  and  I  decided  not  to  see  him 
again." 

"And  he  let  you  decide?" 

"  No.  He  came  the  next  day.  I  had  written  him  a 
letter  saying  good-bye.  And  he  had  one  for  me,  also  saying 
good-bye.  We  read  them  together,"  she  added,  with  a  laugh. 
"  It  must  have  been  funny,  only  we  didn't  know  it." 

"  And  when  you  had  read  the  letters  ?  " 

There  was  still  the  glimmer  of  curious  detached  amuse- 
ment in  her  eyes  as  she  went  on.  "  We  went  down  the 
hill  and  spent  the  day  together.  We  were  very  sensible, 
G.  F. ;  we  knew  it  must  be  the  last  time,  but  we  wanted  just 
that  one  day." 

"  Just  the  one  day,  oh,  Lord !  "  groaned  the  old  man. 

"  Yes,  and  then  suddenly,  he  asked  me  to  marry  him.  Or 
rather  he  just  said  that  I  must.  And  I  said  I  wouldn't." 

"  On  Henny  Shanklin's  account?  " 

Pam  rose.  "  No,  grandfather,  not  altogether.  He  is 
not  strong,  you  know,  and  he  works  too  hard.  It  seems  to 
me  that  I  could  take  care  of  him,  and  help  him — that  he 
needed  me — more  than  he  needed  Lady  Henny's  money 
and  position." 

"  Pam,  I  am  an  old  man,  and  I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of 
the  English  world.  The  devil  lays  no  craftier  snare  than 
that  '  thinking  you  can  help.'  That  has  wrecked  more 
women  than — but  go  on,  my  dear,  go  on,  my  poor  child." 

"  The  trouble  was  that  I  would  not  say  I'd  marry  him. 
I — I  do  not  believe  in  it,  you  see." 


P  A  M  37T 

"  I  see.     Go  on." 

"  And  he  insisted,  and  I  refused,  and  then  he  fainted." 

"And  you  yielded." 

"  No,  I  didn't.  I  kept  on  refusing,  grandfather ;  I  said 
I'd  go  anywhere  with  him." 

Standing  there  in  her  cotton  frock,  her  hands  clasped 
before  her,  she  reminded  him  irresistibly  of  the  way  she 
stood  under  the  trees  the  day  she  had  knocked  Dick  Maxse 
down ;  the  day  he  had  realised  that  she  had  a  soul. 

"  So  you  said  you'd  go — anywhere  with  him !  " 

"  Yes,  grandfather.  I  love  him,  you  see.  And  he  said 
no,  and  that  was  all.  I  came  away  leaving  it  undecided. 
Only  I  hated  to  hurt  him." 

"  I  know.  Go  on,  Pam."  He  spoke  very  gently,  and 
Jenkins,  catching  a  glimpse  of  his  face  from  a  window,  went 
and  opened  a  bottle  of  brandy. 

"Well,  Madame  Ravaglia — I  told  her  about  it,  too;  she 
seemed  to  think  that  I  should  of  course  marry  him.  And 
then  I  came  to  Monks'  Yeoland,  and  there  was  the  wedding, 
and  after  it  he  asked  me  again.  And,  grandfather,  it  does 
seem  awful  to  promise  a  lot  of  things  you  may  not  be  able 
to  keep,  in  a  church,  and  it  seems  to  me  the  very  fact  of 
having  made  the  promises  makes  it  impossible  to  keep  them ; 
but  I  was  just  going  to  give  in  when  Lady  Henrietta  came, 
and  then  it  seemed  too  awful,  and  I  said  no,  and  sent  him 
away." 

"  You  were  not  logical,  my  dear." 

"  I  know  it.  I  have  always  been  so  proud  of  my  strong 
will,  grandfather,  and  it  always  seemed  to  me  that  I  could 
always  have  my  own  way,  but  I  think  that  I  didn't  care 
so  much  about  my  own  way  as  I  did — about  his." 

"  And  you  again  forgot  Henrietta?  " 

"  Yes,  grandfather ;  there  was  no  room  for  her.  But 
when  I  heard  her  voice,  I  had  to  remember  her:  and  I 


372  P  A  M 

remembered  at  the  same  time,  like  a  flash,  all  the  things 
to  be  said  for  him  on  her  side,  against  me.  That  she  is  the 
Duke's  sister,  and  so  rich,  and — and  all  that " 

"  And  when  you  sent  him  to  her,  he  went." 

"Yes.  He  was  very  angry:  he  did  not  speak  to  me  at 
all  at  the  ball,  and  he  went  away  without  saying  good-bye. 
He  might,"  she  added,  with  a  quick  quiver  of  her  lip, 
"have  said  good-bye  to  me!  But  he  didn't,  and — th»f 
is  all." 

The  old  man  watched  her  for  some  minutes  in  silence. 

Her  absolute  unreserve  towards  him  was,  he  knew,  that 
of  a  very  reserved  nature  driven  by  circumstances  and  a 
longing  for  sympathy  to  tell  just  once  what  never  could  be 
repeated  again. 

He  knew  that  women  who  confide  in  many  people  never 
tell  the  whole  of  their  story,  and  that  Pam  would  never 
tell  hers  to  any  one  else. 

There  was  something  unspeakably  touching  to  him, 
toward  the  closing  of  his  long  life,  to  see  this  young  creature, 
just  starting  out  on  her  journey,  with  such  a  burden. 

He  himself,  looking  back  on  the  women  he  had  loved, 
could  hardly  remember  which  of  two  or  three  he  had  cared 
for  most;  he  was  exuberant,  inconstant,  light-hearted  by 
nature  as  well  as  by  careful  cultivation,  but  he  knew  that 
his  grand-daughter  was  of  different  metal.  The  absurdity 
of  one  of  her  desperately  faithful  stamp  objecting  to  matri- 
mony, on  the  ground  that  it  promised  more  than  it  could 
fulfil,  had  not  escaped  him.  He  and  Charnley  Burke  had 
laughed  together  over  it  long  ago,  but  he  had,  naturally, 
never  taken  her  prejudice  seriously. 

When  the  right  man  came,  he  had  thought,  she  would 
change  her  mind  quickly  enough!  And  now  the  right  man 
had  come,  was  at  the  same  time  hopelessly  the  wrong  man, 
she  had  not  changed  her  mind,  but  would  have  sacrificed 


P  A  M  373 

her  view-point,  and — in  a  week  James  Peele  would  be  Hen- 
rietta Shanklin's  husband. 

"You  think  I  did  right,  G.  F.?"  the  girl  asked  at  last, 
turning  to  him. 

"Right?  Who  knows?  You  did  your  best,  dear,  that 
much  is  certain." 


CHAPTER  VIII 


LATE  the  next  evening  Pam  said  good-night  to  her  grand- 
father and  prepared  to  go  to  her  room.  She  had  been  read- 
ing aloud  ever  since  dinner,  for  the  London  post  arrived 
by  the  afternoon  train,  and  she  was  tired. 

No  more  had  been  said  about  Peele,  but  she  felt  relieved 
by  having  told  the  whole  story,  and  knew  that  she  had 
pleased  the  old  man  by  doing  so. 

Now,  as  she  said  good-night,  she  asked  him  quietly,  her 
hand  in  his:  "  Well,  G.  F.,  do  you  not  think,  after  all,  that 
I  did  what  was  best  for  him  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  think.  I  have  never 
been  a  very  good  man;  I  am  what  women  writers  call  a 
cynical  old  worldling;  I  do  not  believe  in  anything  in  par- 
ticular, and  I  can  face  without  quailing  the  great  fact  that 
selfishness  rules  the  world.  So  it  is  more  to  the  point  than 
if  I  were  a  parson,  or  a  saintly  old  patriarch,  that  1  think 
you  did  what  was — noble  and  good.  And  what  is  more,  I 
haven't  a  doubt  that  you  will  have  your  reward." 

"  Grandfather!  You  mean  that  I'll  go  to  heaven?  " 

"  I  hope  you  will,  my  dear,  and  indeed  I  fully  expect  that 
you  will,  but  I  didn't  mean  that.  You  did  the  best  thing 
you  could  do,  and  whatever  may  happen " 

He  stopped  hastily,  biting  his  lip,  but  she  only  smiled 
absently.  "  Nothing  can  possibly  happen,  short  of  Lady 
Henny  at  the  last  minute  running  away  with  some  one  else, 
as  happens  in  books.  And  I  am  not  going  to  fade  away 
like  one  of  Rhoda  B  rough  ton's  tubercular  heroines.  I  am 

374 


P  A  M  375 

going  to  have  a  very  good  time,  and  dance,  and  flirt  like 
mad  (I  feel  that  the  Yeoland  gift  for  that  art  lieth  dor- 
mant in  my  young  breast),  and  wear  fine  clothes,  and  ride. 
You  will  find  me  a  very  frivolous  and  expensive  young 
woman." 

"Shall  I,  indeed?  Well,  just  as  you  like.  I  feel  so 
much  better  of  late  that  I  am  beginning  to  make  plans  for 
a  visit  to  Paris,  and  possibly  even  for  a  winter  in  Rome. 
We  could  take  an  apartment,  and  you  could  try  your  charms 
on  the  Italians." 

"  Oh,  G.  F.,  I  should  love  to  be  in  Rome  with  you!  You 
are  an  angel  to  think  of  it,  and  it  will  be  perfect.  Now, 
good-night.  Aren't  my  brown  paws  funny  with  these 
rings?" 

Ravaglia's  rings  had  come  that  afternoon,  and  she  had 
put  them  all  on. 

"  I  shall  always  wear  the  ruby,  G.  F.,  don't  you  think 
I  might?  She  always  did." 

"  George — the  man  I  told  you  of — gave  it  to  her,  my 
dear.  It  is  very  valuable,  but  wear  it  if  you  like,  as  a 
souvenir." 

*  I  shall  always  wear  it.  Good-night,  grandfather.  I 
am  glad  you  are  so  well." 

He  laughed.  "  Yes,  my  dear,  Cornwall  seems  to  be  doing 
me  good." 

Pam  sat  for  hours  by  her  open  window,  turning  the 
ring  on  her  finger  and  studying,  in  her  curious  way,  the 
situation.  She  had  definitely  given  up  Peele;  she  would 
never  again  see  him;  of  these  things  she  was  certain.  And 
she  did  not  intend  to  rnope.  "  In  a  few  months,"  she 
thought,  "  the  ache  of  it  will  be  better.  People  do  get  over 
things,  even  if  they  can't  forget  them."  Her  lip  shook  sud- 
denly, but  she  would  not  allow  herself  to  cry,  and,  rising, 
went  to  her  table  and  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Evelyn.  Then, 


376  P  A  M 

her  lips  still  set  hard,  she  undressed  and  went  to  bed.  Three 
hours  later  she  was  awakened  by  a  loud  knocking  at  her 
door. 

It  was  Jenkins.  '  'Is  Lordship,  Miss,  I  think  'e's  gone 
already,"  stammered  the  man. 

"  No,  no,  Jenkins — I  am  coming — you  are  mistaken — he 
was  better — he  is  better." 

But  Lord  Yeoland  had  gone.  He  had  died  in  his  sleep. 
When  the  doctor  had  left  and  the  hotel-keeper's  wife  had 
gone  back  to  her  room,  Pam  and  the  servant  sat  on  the 
bed,  where,  in  the  cheerful  lamplight,  the  old  man  lay 
smiling. 

Twice  the  girl  touched  his  hand  gently,  hardly  believing 
that  she  had  not  been  dreaming.  But  his  hand  was  chill  as 
living  hands,  however  cold,  never  are. 

Pilgrim,  whose  loud  crying  had  annoyed  her  mistress, 
had  been  sent  to  her  room;  and  at  last  Jenkins  fell  asleep 
and  Pam  was  alone.  Alone  to  realise  her  great  loneliness. 

Her  father  and  mother  had  sailed  for  Japan  in  the 
O'Neill's  yacht;  the  letter  had  come  that  afternoon,  and 
Lord  Yeoland  had  said  that  he  was  glad,  as  it  made  Pam 
more  altogether  his. 

They  were  gone,  and  now  he  too  had  gone.  She  had  not 
cried  at  all.  As  yet,  though  she  repeated  over  and  over 
that  he  was  dead,  she  could  not  quite  believe  it.  It  required 
an  effort,  and  she  knew  that  she  would  not  realise  it  fully 
for  days. 

They  were  to  have  gone  to  Rome;  they  were  to  have  been 
together.  He,  of  all  the  people  in  the  world,  had  needed 
her,  and  to  be  needed  is  to  some  natures  dearer  than  being 
loved. 

Hours  passed,  and  dawn  came  in  at  the  windows. 
Jenkins  awaking  with  a  start,  put  out  the  lamp  and  went 
to  dress. 


P  A  M  377 

"  You  must  telegraph  to  my  aunt,  Jenkins,"  Pam  said 
quietly,  "  and  to  young  Mr.  Maxse." 

"  Yes,  Miss,  of  course.  I'll  'ave  some  tea  made  for  you, 
Miss.  Ah,  'ere  is  Pilgrim." 

Pilgrim,  gaunter  than  ever  after  her  tearful  vigil,  took 
the  girl  to  her  room  and  dressed  her.  "  You  mustn't  take 
cold,  my  poor  lamb,"  she  said,  and  Pam,  even  in  her  misery, 
smiled  at  the  unusual  tenderness. 

Towards  noon  Mrs.  Maxse  wired  that  she  could  not  leave 
her  husband,  who  had  taken  a  sudden  turn  for  the  worse, 
but  that  Cazalet  had  started.  Ratty,  too,  was  coming. 

The  morning  had  been  one  of  brilliant  sunshine,  but 
towards  evening  the  wind  rose,  and  it  began  to  rain.  Pam 
wished  vaguely  that  a  great  storm  would  come,  but  it  was 
only  what  the  landlord  called  '  nasty  weather.'  All  day 
the  young  girl  sat  in  the  room  with  the  dead  man.  He  had, 
in  his  lifetime,  hated  solitude,  and  she  felt  that  she  could 
not  leave  him  now. 

At  six  o'clock  Cazalet  arrived,  having  driven  from  the 
only  station  to  which  he  could  come  at  that  hour. 

Pam  met  him  at  the  door  of  her    grandfather's  room. 

"Oh,  Cazzy!"  she  said. 

"  My  dear,  it  has  been  dreadful  for  you,  all  alone." 

"  I  am  always  alone,"  she  answered,  and  then  he  passed 
her  and  stood  at  the  bed,  looking  down  on  the  man  who  had 
been  his  master,  and  whom  he  had  never  in  the  least 
understood. 

When  he  turned  Pam  stood  by  him,  her  hands  behind 
her,  in  the  way  common  to  her  and  to  the  dead  man. 

"  He  was  better,"  she  said,  "  last  night;  was  it  last  night? 
And  we  were  making  plans  about  going  to  Paris  and  Rome. 
He  died  in  his  sleep.  The  doctor  says  it  was  his  heart." 

"Then  that  queer  attack  at  home  was  from  his  heart! 
The  doctor  made  too  little  of  it,  as  I  thought  at  the  time." 


378  P  A  M 

She  shook  her  head.  "  No.  That  was  just  a — joke, 
Cazzy.  He  was  not  ill.  I  wanted  to  go  away,  for  a 
change,  and  so  he  pretended  to  be  ill,  just  to — to  make  his 
leaving  home  more  natural." 

Gazalet  turned,  surprise  written  all  over  his  honest  face. 

"  He  pretended?     I  don't  understand." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  about  that.  He  was  ill,  though  he 
did  not  know  it.  And  now — oh,  grandfather  I " 

Covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  she  stood  for  a  moment 
without  speaking,  but  there  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes. 

Christopher  Cazalet  went  sadly  to  his  room  and,  sending 
for  the  landlord,  made  the  necessary  arrangements  for  the 
next  day's  journey. 

His  kind  heart  ached  for  the  girl,  so  nearly  a  child,  who 
had  looked  at  him  with  such  tragedy  in  her  eyes.  He  was 
not  an  unimaginative  man,  and  the  pathos  of  her  life  had 
always  touched  him.  Since  that  day,  ten  years  ago,  when 
she  had  opened  the  door  of  the  Villa  to  him,  the  monkey  in 
her  arms,  he  had  really  loved  her.  She  had  been,  in  his  dull 
life,  something  of  the  sunshine  that  she  was  to  his  master, 
and  now,  finding  her  alone  with  the  dead  man,  he  realised, 
as  keenly  as  if  she  had  been  of  his  own  blood,  the  fact  of  her 
utter  loneliness. 

Mr.  Maxse  was  worse;  he  could  not  live  long,  and  his 
wife  was  engrossed  with  him;  Evelyn  had  married  a  man 
Pam  did  not  like,  and  who,  Cazalet  knew,  disapproved  of 
her  intimacy  with  his  wife;  Sacheverel  and  his  wife  were 
utterly  selfish,  absolutely  sufficient  to  each  other;  Ratty's 
wish  to  marry  the  girl  would  make  her  living  at  Monks' 
Yeoland,  even  if  Fred  Yeoland's  wife  had  been  kindly  dis- 
posed to  her,  unbearable. 

There  was  literally  no  place  in  the  world  whither  Pam 
Yeoland  could  go,  as  one  who  belonged  there. 

His  own  house  was  hers,  but  the  old  man  knew  that  he 


P  A  M  379 

could  not  urge  her  to  come  to  him.  She  did  not  belong 
there,  either.  At  last,  tired  of  his  own  thoughts,  Cazalet 
went  back  to  the  sitting-room,  and  found  the  girl  sitting 
talking  in  an  undertone  to  Ratty  who,  very  solemn,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  was  staring  at  her  with  bulging  eyes. 

"  I  want  her  to  go  into  the  garden  with  me,  Cazalet." 
the  young  man  began  abruptly,  as  the  old  man  entered. 
"  There's  no  one  about,  and  the  rain  has  stopped.  It's  a 
beastly  hole  of  an  hotel;  the  Bellevue  at  Treherne  is  much 
better,  but  at  least  this  is  empty,  and  no  one  will  be  in  the 
garden." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  into  the  garden.  Please  don't 
bother,  Ratty." 

"But  look  at  her,  Cazalet;  she  looks  horribly  ill,  and  a 
mouthful  of  fresh  air  will  do  her  good !  " 

Pam,  looking  at  him,  realised  how  very  fat  her  grand- 
father would  have  found  him  in  that  suit  of  clothes,  and 
with  difficulty  she  repressed  a  smile. 

As  Cazalet  sat  down  Jenkins  came  in  bringing  a  lighted 
lamp,  and  the  old  man  started  as  he  caught  sight  of  the 
girl's  face.  "  Good  gracious,  Pam,  you  do  look  ill.  Have 
you  eaten  anything  to-day  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  I  have  eaten,  but  I  have  a  headache;  it  is  only 
that,  Cazzy." 

"  But — if  I  were  you,  I  really  would  go  into  the  garden 
for  a  moment.  Do  go,  my  dear." 

The  girl  hesitated,  but  at  length  rose.  "  Very  well,"  she 
said  indifferently,  "  I'll  go,  but  I'd  rather  go  alone,  Ratty, 
if  you  don't  mind." 

The  young  man  was  about  to  protest  when  Cazalet  made 
him  a  sign,  and  he  let  her  leave  the  room  alone. 

"  Do  not  trouble  her,  Mr.  Ratty,"  the  steward  began,  as 
the  door  closed.  "  She  is  very  unhappy,  and  the  shock  has 
been  very  great." 


380  P  A  M 

"  I  know.     They  were  awfully  fond  of  each  other." 

"Yes.     And  she — is  utterly  alone." 

Ratty  pulled  at  his  young  moustache  and  nodded, 
"  Utterly.  Her  father  and  mother — you  know,  Cazalet, 
and — I  suppose  my  grandfather  left  her  some  money,  how- 
ever," he  added. 

Cazalet  shook  his  head.  "  No.  He  intended  doing  so ; 
he  told  me  so  himself,  but  he  put  it  off.  His  will  dates 
from  '83." 

"I  say!  That  is  rotten!  I  mean  hard  luck.  She'll 
have  to  go  back  to  her  father  and  mother,  won't  she, 

1  " 

"  She  will  go  to  Monks'  Yeoland  for  the  present,  I  sup- 
pose," answered  Cazalet.  "  Her  father  and  mother  are 
yachting,  she  tells  me;  gone  to  Japan.  She  has  no  address, 
and  has  no  idea  when  they  will  be  back." 

"Of  course  she'll  come  to  Monks'  Yeoland;  until  Fred 
and  Minnie  Yeoland  turn  us  out."  There  was  a  long 
pause,  while  Cazalet  stared  at  the  table-cloth  in  deep  thought, 
and  Ratty  pulled  at  his  moustache. 

Then  the  young  man  rose  and  took  up  his  hat.  "  I'll  go 
and  look  after  her,"  he  said  nervously. 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE  rain  had  entirely  ceased,  and  the  moon  shone  faintly 
from  behind  wind-blown  clouds.  Pam,  Caliban  in  her 
arms,  walked  up  and  down  the  gravel  path,  her  skirts  trail- 
ing unheeded.  To-morrow  they  would  take  him  back  home, 
and  they  would  bury  him  in  the  old  vault  in  the  church 
he  had  so  rarely  visited,  and  Fred  Yeoland,  whom  she  had 
never  seen,  would  bear  his  name,  and  Fred  Yeoland's  wife, 
whom  her  grandfather  had  once  told  her  was  a  cat,  and 
who  had  been  unkind  to  her,  would  be  mistress  of  the  old 
house,  and  their  children  run  about  the  grounds  and  have 
tea  in  the  schoolroom. 

The  Maxses  would  go  away;  Dick  was  going  to  die,  too, 
however;  Ratty  would  go  back  to  Oxford  and  funk  his 
examinations  and  grow  fatter  than  ever.  Evy  would  have 
a  house  in  London;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sacheverel  would  be 
very  kind  to  Pam  Yeoland,  but  they  would  be  rather  sorry 
to  have  her  come  back,  and,  anyway,  they  were  going  to 
Japan;  Madame  Ravaglia  was  dead;  Charnley  Burke  was 
going  back  to  Australia,  if  he  had  not  already  gone.  Every 
one  was  provided  for.  Every  one  but  Pam,  and  Pilgrim, 
and  Caliban. 

Suddenly  the  moon,  which  had  for  a  moment  been  hiding 
behind  a  cloud,  shone  out,  shedding  its  lovely  light  on  Ratty 
as  he  came  down  the  path. 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  come,  Ratty,"  Pam  said,  a  little 
pettishly. 

"  Now,  don't  you  be  nasty,  young  woman.  Look  here, 
381 


382  P  A  M 

Pam,"  he  went  on,  joining  her  as  she  turned,  and  walking 
by  her,  "  I  have  just  been  talking  about  you  with  Cazalet." 

"Have  you?" 

"  Yes.     Ugh!     I  hate  that  monkey!  " 

She  laughed  a  little.  "  That,  all  things  considered,  is 
impolite,  Ratty !  " 

"  Well,  I  do,  but  never  mind  that.  Cazalet  tells  me  that 
/our  father  and  mother  are  away  yachting  somewhere,  and 
that  you  don't  know  when  they  will  be  back." 

"  Yes.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sacheverel  are  going  to  Japan," 
she  answered,  with  a  queer  little  smile. 

"  H'm!  And,  of  course,  you  know  that  Fred  Yeoland 
will  take  possession  at  once.  I  wired  him  this  morning,  and 
he  will  of  course  come  to  the  funeral." 

"  I  know." 

"  Well — naturally  you  will  go  back  with  us  now,  and 
stay  until — after  the  funeral.  Minnie  Yeoland  is  a  daughter 
of  Lord  Verney  of  Dalgeston."  His  pause  was  significant. 

"  I  see.  You  mean  that  the  daughter  of  Lord  Verney  of 
Dalgeston  will  not  care  to  acknowledge  a  cousinship  with 
me.  I  know  that  already.  Go  on." 

Ratty  broke  off  a  spray  of  fuchsia  and  shook  them  free 
of  rain-drops. 

"  And — how  are  you  regarding  money?  "  he  asked  slowly. 

She  turned.  "  Make  your  mind  easy  on  that  score,  my 
good  he-cozen  (as  Pepys  says),  my  grandfather  has  left  me 
some  money." 

"  You  are  wrong ;  he  hasn't  made  a  will  since  '83 ! 
Cazalet  told  me  so.  He  meant  to  provide  for  you,  and — 
he  put  it  off  until  too  late.  Now  don't — don't  look  like 
that,  Pam.  I — I'm  sorry  I  told  you  so  abruptly.  I  only 
wanted  you  to  know  that,  after  all,  you  wouldn't  do  so  badly 
by — marrying  me."  His  voice  shook  with  unmistakable 
feeling  as  he  spoke,  but  Pam  did  not  answer. 


P  A  M  383 

Caliban,  who  had  been  asleep,  had  wakened,  and  turning 
his  face  to  hers,  wizened  and  weird  in  the  moonlight,  she 
said  gently:  "  Cally,  we  shall  have  to  move  on.  Like  Jo 
in  '  Bleak  House,'  you  and  I  and  Pilly  must  move  on !  " 

"  Pam,  will  you  listen  to  me?"  Ratty  laid  his  hand  on 
hers  and  arrested  her,  as  she  started  to  leave  him. 

"  Pam — you  know  I  love  you.  I'm  a  brute  to  have  told 
you  that,  but  you  always  laugh  at  me,  and — we'd  not  be 
rich,  but  \ve'd  not  starve,  and  you'd  not  be  lonely.  I'll  be 
as  good  as  I  can  to  you,  and  try  to  please  you." 

"  Thank  you,  Ratty;  but  it  is  quite  impossible." 

"Why  is  it  impossible?  I'll  do  my  very  best  to  make 
you  happy.  And  if  it's  because  I'm  so  fat,  why,  there's  a 
chap  at  Christ's  who  nearly  lost  two  stone  in  ten  days, 
taking  some  American  powders." 

Pam  burst  out  laughing — into  a  genuine  laugh  of  irrepres- 
sible amusement.  "  Oh,  Ratty  Maxse,  you  are  too  funny,'* 
she  cried,  "  with  your  American  powders !  " 

"  Well,  I  must  say  you  are  pretty  queer,  yelling  like  a 
hyena  with  my  grandfather  dead  in  the  house,"  he  returned 
sulkily.  "  A  nice  impression  you'd  make  if  any  one  hap- 
pened to  hear  you." 

"  I  know  I  oughtn't  to  have  laughed,  but  I  couldn't  help 
it,  and  he  would  have  laughed,  too,  Ratty." 

"  Well,  give  me  my  answer.  You  treat  me  like  a  brute, 
but  I  love  you  and  I'll  try  to  make  you  happy,"  he  repeated, 
frowning. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Ratty,  but  I  cannot  marry  you.  I  thank 
you,  though,  and  I  know  you  mean  to  be  kind." 

Ratty  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height. 

"  Very  well.  I  shall  not  trouble  you  again ;  indeed,  I 
shall  try  to  avoid  seeing  you,  in  the  future.  And  some  day, 
when  you  see  what  most  men  think  on  certain  subjects,  you 
may  be  sorry."  Then  he  left  her. 


384  P  AM 

The  girl  sat  down  on  a  wet  bench  and  watched  his 
majestic  withdrawal.  Poor  Ratty,  he  was  so  absurd! 

A  few  minutes  later  Pilgrim  came  out,  a  pair  of  overshoes 
in  her  hand.  "  You  might  have  more  sense,"  the  ancient 
hand-maiden  observed  sourly,  "  than  to  walk  around  in  this 
sopping  gravel  with  them  slippers  on !  " 

"  Pilly,  I  have  no  sense.  Not  a  bit.  Pilly,  how  would 
you  like  to  go  back  to  the  Villa?  " 

"  To  the  Villa?    Why  should  we  go  there?  " 

Pilgrim,  who  was  kneeling  on  the  gravel  to  which  she 
had  objected,  rose  with  angular  agility. 

Pam  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  Why  should  we  go  any- 
where? My  grandfather  is  dead,  father  and  mother  don't 
want  us,  Aunt  Rosamund  will  go  and  live  with  Evy  as  soon 
as  Uncle  Dick  has  died,  and  the  new  Lady  Yeoland  has 
already  refused  to  know  me.  We've  only  a  very  little 
money,  too;  only  what  mother  settled  on  me,  of  my  grand- 
mother's. We  might  go  to  America,  you  know." 

"And  people  don't  need  money  in  America,  I  suppose!  " 

"  Don't  be  sarcastic,  Pilly.     Sit  down  here  and  listen." 

"  You'll  take  your  death  of  cold  on  that  bench ;  come  on 
in,  it  is  late." 

"  Just  a  moment.  You  see,  I  can't  go  back  to  Monks' 
Yeoland.  Poor  Ratty  is  angry  with  me,  and  if  I'm  there 
he  won't  come,  and  Aunt  Rosamund  will  need  him.  Then 
Lady  Yeoland  would  be  very  angry  if  I  came  to  the 
funeral." 

"  Why  do  you  say  those  things?  She  might  like  you  now 
you're  a  grown  up  young  lady !  "  Poor  Pilgrim's  tone  was 
very  wistful,  and  Pam  took  her  hand  kindly. 

"  No,  poor  old  Pilly.  I  shan't  go  at  all  now.  We  won't 
go  to  the  funeral.  My  being  grown-up  doesn't  make  any 
difference.  Mrs. — I  mean  Lady — Yeoland  refused  to  meet 
me  once,  when  she  was  visiting  at  Budcombe,  and  I  don't 


P  A  M  38? 

care  to  meet  her.  My  G.  F.  won't  mind ;  he'll  understand. 
Pilly,  you  go  and  pack,  and  we'll  run  away  again." 

Pilly  was  crying  now;  crying  hopelessly  and  without 
bitterness  at  being  once  more  thus  cast  into  outer  darkness. 

Pam  was  very  gentle  with  her,  but  quite  firm,  and  hardly 
an  hour  later,  when  the  good  woman  had  gone  to  pack, 
preparatory  to  their  last  flitting  from  the  kmd  old  man  whc 
was  dead,  the  young  girl,  fearful  lest  Ratty  or  Cazalet  might 
come  to  look  for  her,  passed  out  of  the  garden  and  went 
down  the  path  to  the  edge  of  the  rocks. 

The  wind  had  died  down,  and  the  great  waves  broke 
more  gently  than  during  the  day,  but  with  a  sort  of  sullen 
dignity.  Overhead,  the  moon  now  shone  in  a  perfectly  clear 
sky. 

Pam's  head  ached,  and  she  was  very  tired.  It  was  a 
relief  to  her  that  Pilgrim  was  prepared,  and  that  before 
morning  they  would  be  again  under  weigh.  She  would 
write  to  her  aunt,  of  course,  and  she  would  leave  a  note  for 
Cazalet.  Then  she  would  go  to  America  or  back  to  the  Villa. 

"  I  might  go  on  the  stage,  too,"  she  told  herself.  "  My 
voice  is  good,  and  I  could  act.  If  I  were  not  so  hideously 


young 


After  a  minute  she  rose  from  the  rock  on  which  she  had 
been  sitting,  and  stood  looking  at  the  sea. 

"  Pilly  and  I  will  go  away  from  here.  That  is  the  first 
step  to  be  taken,"  she  said  aloud,  "  and  the  next  needn't  be 
taken  until  after  that.  And  of  one  thing  I  am  sure.  I  am 
a  privateer,  as  he  said — but  I  will  not  be  a  derelict!  " 

Full  of  dreary  courage  she  turned  towards  the  hotel,  and 
at  the  garden  gate  met  James  Peele,  as  she  had  met  him  that 
night  in  Arcadia. 

"  Pam,  the  Duchess  sent  me — your  grandfather  wired  her 
to  come,  and  she  couldn't — we  didn't  even  know  he  was 
ill " 


386  P  AM 

"  You/  "  she  said  faintly,  leaning  against  the  gate. 

"  Yes.  Yesterday — no,  the  day  before — he  wired  her  to 
come,  on  very  important  business,  and  she  could  not  get 
away,  so  she  sent  me.  I  swear  I  tried  to  get  out  of  it,  and 
couldn't." 

"  And  couldn't."  After  a  pause  she  went  on :  "I  see 
now  what  he  meant." 

"What  he  meant?" 

"  Yes,  I  told  him  about  our  '  pitiable  folly '  in  Arcadia. 
And  he  said  that  I  was  right,  and  might  be  rewarded.  He 
was  going  to  tell  the  Duchess !  " 

Peele  started.  "Was  he?  You  think  that  was  why 
he  telegraphed  ?  " 

"  I  know  it.  He  was  going  to  fight  for  me,  my  dear  old 
man!" 

The  first  tears  she  had  shed  since  her  grandfather's  death 
rushed  to  her  eyes,  and  to  hide  them  she  bent  over  Caliban. 

"  Pam— for  God's  sake  don't  cry!  " 

"  No,  I'll  not  cry.  Well,  I'm  glad  he  did  it,  for  nov  you 
will  forgive  me,  won't  you?  " 

"  Forgive  you !  " 

"  Yes."  He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  to  his  heart ;  she 
could  hear  the  throbbing  under  the  rough  waistcoat. 

"  It  is  you  who  must  forgive  me,  dear." 

"  Then  we  both  forgive  each  other,  and  our  consciences 
are  at  peace.  I  must  go  in  now.  Mr.  Cazalet,  the  steward, 
has  come,  and  Ratty,  my  cousin — will  you  see  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  no — I  don't  know." 

"  Then — good-night.  And  believe  that  I  hope  you  will 
be  very  happy." 

"  Without  you?  Yes;  that  is  very  likely.  Tell  me,  what 
are  your  plans?  " 

She  told  him,  in  a  sudden  nervous  flow  of  words;  told 
him  that  Mrs.  Fred  Yeoland's  presence  at  the  funeral,  and 


P  A  M  38? 

Ratty's,  ensured  her  own  absence ;  that  her  father  and  mother 
were  gone;  that  she  could  not  go  to  Evelyn's;  that  she  was 
very  poor.  Then  she  added :  "  And  so  Pilly  and  Caliban 
and  I  are  '  off  to  Philadelphia  in  the  morning! '  I  am 
going  somewhere  and  begin  life  over  again." 

"  Somewhere !  Pam — listen !  "  He  hesitated  for  a  mo- 
ment and  then,  his  eyes  fixed  on  hers,  his  hand  on  her 
shoulders,  hurried  on:  "If  it  is  as  you  say,  if  you  are  so 
utterly  alone,  and  have  no  place  to  go — by  God!  I  am  a 
scoundrel,  but  I  can't  help  it — come  with  me.  Come  to 
South  Africa  with  me.  You  love  me,  and  I  love  you,  nothing 
else  matters." 

She  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  while  a  beautiful  blush 
crept  up  to  her  brow. 

"To  Africa  with  you!  Ah,  if  I  could!  But — Lady 
Henny " 

"  You  will  come,  you  will  ?  " 

He  caught  her  roughly  to  him  and  kissed  her.  "  Pam, 
you  will — oh,  bother  Lady  Henny!  It  is  Fate;  we  can't 
help  it.  I've  tried  all  this  time  to  hold  it  back,  this  love, 
but  I  can't,  and  neither  can  you." 

"  Then,  yes." 

For  a  long  time  they  stood  together  without  speaking, 
and  then,  raising  her  head,  the  girl  began :  "  To  think  that 
my  darling  old  grandfather  did  it,  after  all!  How  glad 
he  would  be — or  perhaps  is." 

Peele  started.  "  In  any  other  case,  at  least,"  he  an- 
swered hurriedly,  "  I  am  sure  he  would  not  blame  us ;  I 
mean,  if  you  were  not  his  grand-daughter." 

"  But  he  would  not  blame  us  at  all.  He  could  only  have 
told  the  Duchess  the  truth,  if  he  had  lived;  that  was  of 
course  what  he  meant  to  do." 

Peele  looked  at  her  keenly.  His  face  was  white,  his  eyes 
like  steel  in  the  moonlight.  "  Pam — you  are  not  going  to 


388  P  AM 

regret  it  later?  There  is  yet  time,  you  know.  If  you  were 
not  so  utterly  alone  I  should  not  have  proposed  it,  but  I 
love  you." 

"  And  I  love  you.  I  have  known,  ever  since  that  evening 
in  Arcadia,  that  I  shall  love  you,  must  love  you,  until  1 
die.  Ah,  no,  I  shall  not  regret  it !  " 

His  face  softened  as  he  drew  her  close  to  him. 

"  The  only  thing  I  regret  is  about  her.  It  is  hard,  it  is 
cruel,  for  she  has  done  nothing  to  deserve  it." 

"  A  train  leaves  at  six,"  he  said  hastily.  "  I  shall  walk  to 
Penellen  and  join  you  there.  You  will  take  Pilgrim,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  Poor  old  Pilly,  how  glad  she  will  be.  But, 
Jim,  we  must  wait,  now.  I  was  running  away  only  because 
I  was  all  alone.  Now  I  must  go  to  the  funeral.  Mrs.  Fred 
Yeoland  cannot  hurt  me  any  more." 

Peele  drew  away  from  her  and  folded  his  arms. 

"  Pam,  you  don't  understand,"  he  said.  "  I  cannot 
break  my  engagement  now;  it  is  too  late,  and  it  would  be 
impossible." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

It  annoyed  him,  even  in  his  angry  embarrassment,  to  have 
Caliban's  misty  eyes  staring  at  him  as  well  as  the  girl's. 
mean,  my  dear  child,  you  have  refused  a  dozen  times  to 
marry  me,  you  do  not  believe  in  marriage " 

"  You  mean,  that  you  will  marry  her,  and  that  I  Shall 

1 l> 

"Make  that  brute  stop  staring  at  me,  can't  you?  I 
mean  that  I  cannot  with  decency  break  my  engagement  with 
the  Duke  of  Wight's  sister  at  the  eleventh  hour,  but  that  I 
love  you,  and  you  love  me,  and  that  is — as  you  have  no 
family  ties,  I  ask  you  to  trust  yourself  to  me,  to  give  your 
life  into  my  keeping,  and  I  swear  before  God !  "  he  went  on 
eagerly,  his  voice  vibrating,  "  that  you  are  and  always  will 


P  A  M  389 

be,  the  only  woman  I  have  ever  loved,  and  that  I  will  make 
you  as  happy  as  ever  a  man  made  a  woman." 

When  he  paused,  out  of  breath,  and  biting  his  lip  to 
control  his  agitation,  there  was  a  long  pause. 

At  the  end  of  the  pause,  Pam  laughed. 

"  You  have  made,"  she  said,  "  a  curious  mistake!  " 

"  I  have  made  no  mistake.  You  have  told  me  over  and 
over  again  that  you  will  never  marry;  if  you  are  afraid, 
now  that  the  time  has  come  to  test  your  courage " 

She  stopped  him  with  a  gesture.  "  What  do  you  know 
about  courage?  You,  who  are  trying  to  run  both  with  the 
hare  and  the  hounds?  I  meant  that  loving  you,  I  would  be 
proud  to  come  to  you,  before  all  the  world,  to  be  your  wife 
in  everything  but  the  name,  you  to  be  my  husband  in  every- 
thing but  the  name.  I  knew  that  I  could  have  no  friends, 
that  no  one  would  know  me,  that  I  should  be  an  outcast, 
like  my  mother,  but  I  thought  our  life  should  be  like  that 
of  my  father  and  mother's.  And  that  seemed  to  me  not 
only  beautiful,  but  good. 

"You  have  offered  me  a  life  of  shame;  of  sneaking  and 
hiding,  of  taking,  behind  her  back,  the  love  you  would, 
knowing  it  to  be  false,  have  sworn  in  a  church  to  give  to 
Henrietta  Shanklin.  So  you  see — our  ideas  differ/' 

"  You  are  an  absurd  child!  "  he  returned  angrily. 

"  Yes,  I  am  an  absurd  child !  I  have  been  very  ridicu- 
lous and  very  wrong ;  and  now  I  know.  I  know  that  people 
must  marry  so  that  their  daughters  can  bear  their  father's 
name,  and  not  be  hurt  like  this." 

Her  voice  broke,  and  she  bent  her  head  to  the  dark  face 
of  the  drowsy  monkey. 

Peele  took  her  hand  in  his.  "  Pam,  will  you  forgive  me  ? 
I — I  beg  your  pardon.  You  were  a  fool,  perhaps,  but  I 
was  a  scoundrel,  and  I  am  ashamed.  I  will  break  my  en- 
gagement and  then  I  will  come  and  ask  you  to  marry  me.' 


390  P  A  M 

She  looked  up,  and  saw  that  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"  No,"  she  said  gently.  "  I  forgive  you,  and  I  thank  you, 
but  I  will  not  marry  you." 

"  Then  you  do  not  forgive  me." 

"Yes;  don't  think  that,  for  I  do.  But  I  cannot  marry 
you.  Good-bye  now.  I  must  go  in,  or  Pilgrim  will  be 
frightened." 

"  The  other  day,  in  the  ruin,"  he  went  on  hurriedly, 
**  you  were  on  the  point  of  saying  you  would  marry  me." 

"  Yes.  Because  I  thought  you  really  needed  me,  and 
then  she  came.  Oh,  I  know  I  have  been  illogical  and 
foolish.  I  must  go  in  now." 

"Pam!" 

"  No." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  for  a  moment,  with  a  little  smile, 
and  turned  away  and  went  quickly  back  through  the  garden. 

Seven  hours  later  he  stood  on  the  platform  of  the  little 
station  with  her,  while  Pilgrim,  grimmer  of  aspect  than 
ever,  bought  the  tickets. 

"  I  could  not  go  to  Monks'  Yeoland,"  the  girl  explained 
patiently,  "  even  for  the  funeral.  Ratty  is  very  angry  with 
me,  and  Mrs.  Yeoland  would  be  very  angry,  too,  if  I  came. 
And,  as  I  am  going  away,  it  doesn't  matter  what  other  people 
think.  My  grandfather  would  have  understood,  or  does 
understand." 

"  Pam,  you  love  me.     How  can  you  do  this?  " 

"  It  is  the  only  thing  I  can  do.  And  in  a  little  while, 
you  will  see  that  anything  else  would  indeed  have  been 
'  pitiable  folly ! '  What  would  you  be,  socially  or  politically, 
if  you  jilted  the  Duke  of  Wight's  sister  four  days  before  the 
wedding?  It  would  ruin  you." 

"  Then  you  are  going  away  out  of  pure  philanthropy  ?  " 
he  asked,  with  a  sneer. 


P  A  M  391 

"  No ;  partly  for  your  sake,  partly  for  her  sake,  and — a 
good  deal  for  my  own  sake." 

"  I  don't  understand  that." 

"  I  daresay  you  don't.  But  you  see,  I  am  a  pagan  philos- 
opher, and  I  want  to  be  as  happy  as  I  can.  I  should  be 
very  unhappy  if  I  married  you." 

"  Yet  you  loved  me !  " 

The  sun  was  rising,  gilding  the  shabby  front  of  the  little 
station,  and  sparkling  on  the  dewy  grass  beyond. 

An  unshorn  porter  slouched  towards  them,  Pam's  trunk 
on  his  shoulder,  followed  by  Pilgrim. 

Pam  turned  and  looked  at  Peele.  "  I  love  you,"  she  said 
quietly ;  "  it's  a  misfortune,  and  can't  be  helped,  but  it  exists. 
Now,  here  comes  the  train." 

"  I  can't  let  you  go." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  can!  Pilly,  take  my  bag,  will  you?  I  must 
wrap  Caliban  up  in  my  cape,  he  is  shivering.  Good-bye, 
Mr.  Peele." 

"  I  shall  write  to  your  father,"  he  said,  crushing  her  hand 
in  his. 

"  So  shall  I !  The  dears,  how  glad  I  shall  be  to  see  them 
again.  And  give  my  love  to  the  Duchess  and  to  Lady 
Henrietta,  and  tell  her  that  I  hope  with  all  my  heart  that 
she  will  be  happy." 

The  train  had  stopped,  and  the  guard  had  opened  the  door 
of  a  first-class  empty  carriage. 

Pilgrim  climbed  up,  with  an  unconscious  display  of  a  lath- 
like  leg,  and  took  the  bags  from  the  porter. 

"  Good-bye,  again,  then,"  Pam  said,  for  Peele  could  not 
speak,  "  and  God  bless  you." 

As  the  door  closed  she  opened  the  window  and  stood  by 
it,  looking  at  him  until  the  train  had  gone,  the  monkey's 
face  pressed  close  to  her  own. 


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Princess  Passes,  The.    C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Private  War,  The.    Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

Prodigal  Son,  The.     Hall  Caine. 

Queen's  Advocate,  The.    Arthur  W.  Marchmont. 

Quickening,  The.     Francis  Lynde. 

Richard  the  Brazen.      Cyrus  Townsend  Brady  and  Edware 
Peple. 

Rose  of  the  World.    Agnes  and  Egerton  Castle. 

Sarita  the  Carlist.     Arthur  W.  Marchmont. 

Seats  of  the  Mighty,  The.      Gilbert  Parker. 

Sir  Nigel.    A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Sir  Richard  Calmady.    Lucas  Malet. 

Speckled  Bird.    Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Spoilers,  The.    Rex  Beach. 

Sunset  Trail,  The.    Alfred  Henry  Lewis. 

Sword  of  the  Old  Frontier,  A.     Randall  Parrish. 
•xTales  of  Sherlock  Holmes.      A.  Conan  Doyle. 

That  Printer  of  Udell's.    Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Throwback,  The.     Alfred  Henry  Lewis. 

Trail  of  the  Sword,  The.    Gilbert  Parker. 

Two  Vanrevels,  The.     Booth  Tarkington. 

Up  From  Slavery.    Booker  T.  Washington. 

Vashti.     Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 
••  Viper  of  Milan,  The  (original  edition).  Marjorie  Bowen. 

Voice  of  the  People,  The.    Ellen  Glasgow. 

Wheel  of  Life,  The.    Ellen  Glasgow. 

When  I  Was  Czar.    Arthur  W.  Marchmont. 

When  Wilderness  Was  King.     Randall  Parrish. 

Woman  in  Grey,  A.    Mrs.  C.  N.  Williamson. 
t/ "Woman  in  the  Alcove,  The.    Anna  Katharine  Green. 

A.  L.  BURT  CO.,  PublUhers,  52-58  Duane  St.,  New  York  City 


'J  SERIES  of  STANDARD  FICTION., 

RICHELIIi  U.  A  tale  of  France  in  the  reign  of  King  Louis  XIIL  By  G.  P 
R.  James.  Cloth,  lamo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  Ji.oo, 

In  1S29  Mr.  James  published  his  first  romance,  "Richelieu."  and  was 
recognized  at  once  as  one  of  the  masters  of  the  araft. 

In  this  book  he  laid  the  story  during  those  later  days  of  the  great  car- 
dinal's life,  when  his  power  was  beginning  to  wane,  but  while  It  waa 
yet  sufficiently  strong  to  permit  now  and  then  of  volcanic  outbursts  which 
overwhelmed  foes  and  carried  friends  to  the  topmost  wave  of  prosperity. 
One  of  the  most  striking  portions  of  the  story  is  that  of  Cinq  Mar's  conspir- 
acy; the  method  of  conducting  criminal  cases,  and  the  political  trickery 
resorted  to  by  royal  favorites,  affording  a  better  msight  into  the  state- 
craft of  that  day  than  can  be  had  even  by  an  exhaustive  study  of  history- 
It  is  a  powerful  romance  of  love  and  diplomacy,  and  in  point  of  thrilling; 
ind  absorbing  interest  has  never  been  excelled. 

A  COLONIAL  FREE-LANCE.  A  story  of  American  Colonial  Times.  By 
Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss.  Cloth,  I2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

A  book  that  appeals  to  Americans  as  a  vivid  picture  of  Revolutionary 
scenes.  The  story  is  a  strong  one,  a  thrilling  one.  It  causes  the  true 
American  to  flush  with  excitement,  to  devour  chapter  after  chapter,  until 
the  eyes  smart,  and  it  fairly  smokes  with  patriotism.  The  love  story  is  * 
singularly  charming  idyl. 

THE  TOWER  OF  LONDON.  A  Historical  Romancexsf  the  Times  of  Lady 
Jane  Grey  and  Mary  Tudor.  By  Wm.  Harrison  Ainsworth.  Cloth,  I2me.  with 
four  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank.  Price,  $1.00. 

This  romance  of  the  "Tower  of  London"  depicts  the  Tower  as  palace, 
prison  and  fortress,  with  many  historical  associations.  The  era  is  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

The  story  is  divided  into  two  parts,  one  dealing  with  Lady  Jane  Grey, 
and  the  other  with  Mary  Tudor  as  Queen,  introducing  other  notable  char- 
acters of  the  era.  Throughout  the  story  holds  the  interest  of  the  reader 
in  the  midst  of  intrigue  and  conspiracy,  extending  considerably  over  a 
half  a  century. 

IN  DEFIANCE  OF  THE  KING.  A  Romance  of  the  American  Revolution 
By  Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss.  Cloth,  izmo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

Mr.  Hotchkiss  has  etched  in  burning  words  a  story  of  Yankee  bravery, 
and  true  love  that  thrills  from  beginning  to  end,  with  the  spirit  of  the 
Revolution.  The  heart  beats  quickly,  and  we  feel  ourselves  taking  a 
part  in  the  exciting  scenes  described.  His  whole  story  is  so  absorbing 
that  you  will  sit  up  far  into  the  night  to  finish  it.  As  a  love  romance 
it  is  charming. 

GARTHOWEN.  A  story  of  a  Welsh  Homestead.  By  Allen  Raine.  Cloth, 
I2tno.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  |i.oo. 

"This  is  a  little  idyl  of  humble  life  and  enduring  love,  laid  bare  be-fore 
us,  very  real  and  pure,  which  in  its  telling  shows  us  some  strong  points  of 
Welsh  character— the  pride,  the  hasty  temper,  the  quick  dying  out  of  wrath. 
We  call  this  a  well-written  story,  interesting  alike  through  its 
romance  and  its  plimpses  into  another  life  than  ours.  A  delightful  and 
clever  picture  of  Welsh  village  life.  The  result  is  excellent." — Detroit  Free 
Press. 

M.FANWY.  The  story  01  a.  Welsh  Singer.  By  Allan  Raine.  Cloth, 
I2tno.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

"This  is  a  love  story,  simple,  tender  and  pretty  as  one  would  care  tc 
read.  The  action  throughout  is  brisk  and  pleasing;  the  characters,  it  is  ap- 
parent at  once,  are  as  true  to  life  as  though  the  author  had  known  them 
all  personally.  Simple  in  all  its  situations,  the  story  is  worked  up  in  that 
touching  and  quaint  strain  which  never  grows  wearisome,  no  matter  how 
often  the  lights  and  shadows  of  love  are  introduced.  It  rings  true,  and 
does  not  tax  the  imagination." — Boston  Herald. 


SCRIES  o/  STANDARD   FICTION. 

THB  SPIRIT  OF  THE  BORDER.  A  Romance  of  the  Early  Settlers  in  the 
Ohio  Valley.  By  Zane  Grey.  Cloth,  izmo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  |i . oo. 

A  book  rather  out  of  th«  ordinary  Is  this  "Spirit  of  the  Border."  The 
main  thread  of  the  story  has  to  do  with  the  work  of  the  Moravian  mis- 
sionaries In  the  Ohio  Valley.  Incidentally  the  reader  Is  given  details  of  the 
frontier  life  of  those  hardy  pioneers  who  broke  the  wilderness  for  the  plant- 
tag  ot  this  great  nation.  Chief  among  these,  as  a  matter  of  course,  la 
Lewis  Wetael,  one  of  the  most  peculiar,  and  at  the  same  time  the  most 
admirable  of  all  the  brave  men  who  spent  their  lives  battling  with  the 
savage  foe,  that  others  might  dwell  In  comparative  security. 

Details  of  the  establishment  and  destruction  of  the  Moravian  "Village 
of  Peace"  are  given  at  some  length,  and  with  minute  description.  The 
efforts  to  Christianize  the  Indians  are  described  as  they  never  have  been 
before,  and  the  author  has  depicted  the  characters  of  the  leaders  of  the 
several  Indian  tribes  with  great  care,  which  of  itself  will  be  of  interest  to 
the  student. 

By  no  means  least  among  the  charms  of  the  story  are  the  vivid  word- 
pictures  of  the  thrilling  adventures,  and  the  intense  paintings  of  the  beau- 
ties of  nature,  as  seen  in  the  almost  unbroken  forests. 

It  is  the  spirit  of  the  frontier  which  is  described,  and  one  can  by  it, 
perhaps,  the  better  understand  why  men,  and  women,  too,  willingly  braved 
every  privation  and  danger  that  the  westward  progress  of  the  star  of  em- 
pire might  be  the  more  certain  and  rapid.  A  love  story,  simple  and  tender, 
runs  through  the  book. 

CAPTAIN  BRAND,  OF  THE  SCHOONER  CENTIPEDE.  By  I,ieut. 
Henry  A,  Wise,  U.  S.  N.  (Harry  Gringo).  Cloth,  I2mo.  with  four  illustra- 
tions by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  Ji.oo. 

The  re-publication  of  this  story  will  please  those  lovers  of  sea  yarns 
who  delight  in  so  much  of  the  salty  flavor  of  the  ocean  as  can  come  through 
the  medium  of  a  printed  page,  for  never  has  a  story  of  the  sea  and  those 
"who  go  down  in  ships"  been  written  by  one  more  familiar  with  the  scenes 
depleted. 

The  one  book  of  this  gifted  author  which  is  best  remembered,  and  which 
will  b«  read  with  pleasure  for  many  years  to  come.  Is  "Captain  Brand," 
who,  as  the  author  states  on  his  title  page,  was  a  "pirate  of  eminence  in 
the  West  Indies."  As  a  sea  story  pure  and  simple,  "Captain  Brand"  has 
never  been  excelled,  and  as  a  story  of  piratical  life,  told  without  the  usual 
embellishments  of  blood  and  thunder,  It  has  no  equal. 

NICK  OF  THE  WOODS.  A  story  of  the  Early  Settlers  of  Kentucky.  By 
Robert  Montgomery  Bird.  Cloth,  izmo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Da  via.  Price,  $1.00. 

This  most  popular  novel  and  thrilling  story  of  early  frontier  life  In 
Kentucky  was  originally  published  in  the  year  1837.  The  novel,  long  out  of 
print,  had  in  its  day  a  phenomenal  sale,  for  its  realistic  presentation  of 
Indian  and  frontier  life  in  the  early  days  of  settlement  in  the  South,  nar- 
rated in  the  tale  with  all  the  art  of  a  practiced  writer.  A  vpry  charming 
love  romance  runs  through  the  story.  This  n*w  and  tasteful  edition  of 
"Nick  of  the  Woods"  will  be  certain  to  make  many  new  admirers  foi 
this  enchanting  story  from  Dr.  Bird's  clever  and  versatile  pen. 

GUY  F  AWKES.  A  Romance  of  the  Gunpowder  Treason.  By  Wm.  Harri- 
son Ainsworth.  Cloth,  izmo.  with  four  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank. 
Price,  Ji.oo. 

The  "Gunpowder  Plot"  was  a  modest  attempt  to  blow  up  Parliament, 
the  King  and  his  Counsellors.  James  of  Scotland,  then  King  of  England. 
was  weak-minded  and  extravagant  He  hit  upon  the  efficient  scheme  of 
extorting  money  from  the  people  by  imposing  taxes  on  the  Catholics.  In 
their  natural  resentment  to  this  extortion,  a  handful  of  bold  spirits  con- 
cluded to  overthrow  the  government.  Finally  the  plotters  were  arrested, 
and  the  King  put  to  torture  Guy  Fawkes  and  the  other  prisoners  with 
royal  vigor.  A  very  intense  love  «tory  runs  through  the  entire  romance. 


BURT'S  SERIES  of  STANDARD   FICTION. 

DARNLEY.  A  Romance  of  the  times  of  Henry  VIII.  and  Cardinal  Wolsey. 
By  G.  P.  R.  James.  Cloth,  121110.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis. 
Price,  {i.oo. 

As  a  historical  romance  "Darnley"  is  a  book  that  can  be  taken  up 
pleasurably  again  and  again,  for  there  is  about  it  that  subtle  charm  which 
those  who  are  strangers  to  the  works  of  G.  P.  R.  James  have  claimed  was 
only  to  be  imparted  by  Dumas. 

If  there  was  nothing  more  about  the  work  to  attract  especial  attention, 
the  account  of  the  meeting  of  the  kings  on  the  historic  "field  of  the  cloth  of 
gold"  would  entitle  the  story  to  the  most  favorable  consideration  of  every 
reader. 

There  is  really  but  little  pure  romance  in  this  story,  for  the  author  has 
taken  care  to  imagine  love  passages  only  between  those  whom  history  has 
credited  with  having  entertained  the  tender  passion  one  for  another,  and 
fee  succeeds  in  making  such  lovers  as  all  the  world  must  jove. 

WINDSOR  CASTLE.    A  Historical  Romance  of  the  Reign  of  Henry  VIII 
Catharine  of  Aragon  and  Anne  Boleyn.    By  Wm.  Harrison  Ainsworth.    Cloth. 
i2tno.  with  four  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank,    Price,  $1.00. 

"Windsor  Castle"  is  the  story  of  Henry  VIII.,  Catharine,  and  Anne 
Boleyn.  "Bluff  King  Hal,"  although  a  well-loved  monarch,  was  none  too 
good  a  one  in  many  ways.  Of  all  his  selfishness  and  unwarrantable  acts, 
none  was  more  discreditable  than  his  divorce  from  Catharine,  and  his  mar- 
riage to  the  beautiful  Anne  Boleyn.  The  King's  love  was  as  brief  as  it 
was  vehement.  Jane  Seymour,  waiting  maid  on  the  Queen,  attracted  him, 
and  Anne  Boleyn  was  forced  to  the  block  to  make  room  for  her  successor. 
This  romance  is  one  of  extreme  interest  to  all  readers. 

HORSESHOE  ROBINSON.  A  tale  of  the  Tory  Ascendency  in  South  Caro- 
lina in  1780.  By  John  P.  Kennedy.  Cloth,  izmo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J. 
Watson  Davis.  Price,  |i.oo. 

Among  the  old  favorites  in  the  field  of  what  is  known  as  historical  fic- 
tion, there  are  none  which  appeal  to  a  larger  number  of  Americans  than 
Horseshoe  Robinson,  and  this  because  it  is  the  only  story  which  depicts 
with  fidelity  to  the  facts  the  heroic  efforts  of  the  colonists  in  South  Caro- 
lina to  defend  their  homes  against  the  brutal  oppression  «f  the  British 
under  such  leaders  as  Cornwallis  and  Tarleton. 

The  reader  is  charmed  with  the  story  of  love  which  forms  the  thread 
of  the  tale,  and  then  impressed  with  the  wealth  of  detail  concerning  those 
times.  The  picture  of  the  manifold  sufferings  of  the  people,  is  never  over- 
drawn, but  painted  faithfully  and  honestly  by  one  who  spared  neither 
time  nor  labor  in  his  efforts  to  present  in  this  charming  love  story  all  that 
price  in  blood  and  tears  which  the  Carolinians  paid  as  their  share  in  the 
winning  of  the  republic. 

Take  it  all  in  all,  "Horseshoe  Robinson"  is  a  work  which  should  be 
found  on  every  book-shelf,  not  only  because  it  is  a  most  entertaining 
story,  but  because  of  the  wealth  of  valuable  information  concerning  the 
colonists  which  it  contains.  That  it  has  been  brought  out  once  more,  well 
illustrated,  is  something  which  will  give  pleasure  to  thousands  who  have 
long  desired  an  opportunity  to  read  the  story  again,  and  to  the  many  wh« 
have  tried  vainly  in  these  latter  days  to  procure  a  copy  that  they  might 
read  it  for  the  first  time. 

THE  PEARL  OF  ORR'S  ISLAND.  A  story  of  the  Coast  of  Maine.  By 
Harriet  Beecher  Stowe.  Cloth,  I2mo.  Illustrated.  Price,  f  i.oo. 

Written  prior  to  1862,  the  "Pearl  of  Orr's  Island"  is  ever  new;  a  book 
filled  with  delicate  fancies,  such  as  seemingly  array  themselves  anew  eatfh 
time  one  reads  them.  One  sees  the  "sea  like  an  unbroken  mirror  all 
around  the  pine-girt,  lonely  shores  of  Orr's  Island,"  and  straightway 
comee  "the  heavy,  hollow  moan  of  the  surf  on  the  beach,  like  the  wild 
angry  howl  of  some  savage  animal." 

Who  can  read  of  the  beginning  of  that  sweet  life,  named  Mara,  which 
came  into  this  world  under  the  very  shadow  of  the  Death  angel's  wings, 
without  having  an  inttnse  desire  to  know  how  the  premature  bud  blos- 
somed? Again  and  again  one  lingers  over  the  descriptions  of  the  char- 
acter of  that  baby  boy  Moses,  who  came  through  the  tempest,  amid  the 
angry  billows,  pillowed  on  his  dead  mother's  breast. 

There  is  no  more  faithful  portrayal  of  New  England  life  than  that 
Which  Mrs.  Stowe  gives  in  "The  Pearl  of  Orr's  Island." 


BURT'S  HOME  LIBRARY.    Cloth.    Gilt  Tops.    Price,  $1. ON 


L  Abbe      Constantin.         BY      LUDOVIC 

HALEVY. 

Abbott,     BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
;.  Adam  Bede.     BY  GEORGE  ELIOT. 
Addison's  Essays.     EDITED   BY  JOHN 

RICHARD  GREEN. 
Aeneid    of    Vir^iL     TRANSLATED    BY 

JOHN  CONNINGTON. 
.  Aesop's  Fables. 
Alexander,    the    Great,    Life    of.     BY 

JOHN  WILLIAMS. 
Alfred  the  Great,  Life  of.     BY  THOMAS 

HIJOHES. 

.  Alhambra      BY  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

Alice  in  Wonderland,  and  Through  the 

Looking-Glass.     BY  LEWIS  CARROLL 

Alice  Lorraine.     BY  R.  D.  BLACKMORE 

.  All  Sorts  and  Conditions  of  Men.     BY 

WALTER  BESANT. 

Alton  Locke.     BY  CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 
Amiel's     Journal     TRANSLATED     BY 

MRS.  HUMPHREY  WARD. 
-  Andersen's  Fairy  Tales. 
Anne  of  Geirstein.     BY  SIR  WALTER 

SCOTT. 

i    Antiquary.     BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
,    Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments. 
.  Ardath.     BY   MARIE   CORELLI. 
Arnold,  Benedict,  Life  of.     BY  GEORGE 

CANNING  HILL. 
Arnold's    Poems.        BY      MATTHEW 

ARNOLD. 

Around  the  World  in  the  Yacht  Sun- 
beam.    BY  MRS.  BRASSEY. 
Arundel     Motto.     BY     MARY     CECIL 

HAY. 
At  the  Back  of  the  North  Wind.     BY 

GEORGE  MACDONALD. 
Attic  Philosopher.     BY    EMILB     Sou- 

VESTRB. 
Auld    Licht    Idylls.     BY    JAMES    M. 

BARRIE. 

Aunt  Diana.     BY  ROSA  N.  CAREY. 
Autobiography  of  Benjamin  Franklin. 
Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table.     BY 

O.  W.  HOLMES. 
AveriL     BY  ROSA  N.  CAREY. 
Eicon's  Essays.     BY  FRANCIS  BACON. 
Barbara  H^athcote's  TriaL     BY  ROSA 

N.  CAREY. 

..  Barnaby  Rudge.     BY  CHARLES  DICK- 
ENS. 
Sarrack  Room  Ballads.     BY  RUDYARD 

KIPLING. 
Betrothed.     BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

-    .ah.     BY  AUGUSTA  J.  EVANS. 
Hkilack  Beauty,     BY  ANNA  SEWALL. 
Black      Dwarf.     BY      SIR     WALTER 

SCOTT. 

'  Black  Rock.     BY  RALPH  CONNOR. 
Black  Tulip.     BY  ALEXANDRE  DUMAS. 
Bleak  House.     BY  CHARLES  DICKENS. 
Blithe  dale  Romance.     BY  NATHANIEL 

HAWTHORNS. 

Bondman.     BY  HALL  CAINE. 
Book   of   Golden    Deeds.     BY    CHAR- 
LOTTE M.  YONGE. 

Boone,  Daniel,  Life  of.     BY  CECIL  B. 
HARTLEY. 


Bride      of      Lammermoor.     BY      SIB 

WALTER  SCOTT. 

Bride  of  the  Nile.     BY  GEOBGE  EBEKS, 
Browning's    Poems      BY    ELIZABETH 

BARRETT  BROWNING. 
•browning's      Poems.       (SELECTIONS.) 

BY  ROBERT  BROWNING. 
Bryant's  Poems.  (EARLY.)     BY  WILL. 

IAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 
Burgomaster's     Wife.     BY     GEORGE 

EBERS. 

Burn's  Poems.     BY  ROBERT  BURNS. 
VBy  Order  of  the  King.     BY  VICTOF 

HUGO. 

Byron's  Poems.     BY  LORD  BYRON. 
Caesar,    Julius,    Life    of.     BY    JAMES 

ANTHONY  FROUDE. 
Carson,    Kit,    Life   of,     BY    CHARLES 

BURDETT. 
Cary's  Poems.     BY  ALICE  AND  PHO«BE 

GARY. 
Cast  Up  by  the  Sea.     BY  SIR  SAMUEL, 

BAKER. 
Charlemagne  (Charles  the  Great),  Life 

of.     BY  THOMAS  HODGKIN   D.  C.  L. 
Charles  Auchester.     BY  E.  BERGER. 
Character.     BY  SAMUEL  SMILES. 
Charles      O'Malley.        BY      CHARLES 

LEVER. 

Chesterfield's  Letters.     BY  LORD  CHES- 
TERFIELD. 
Chevalier     de     Maison     Rouge.     BY 

ALEXANDRE  DUMAS. 
Chicot   the   Jester.     BY    ALEXANDRB 

DUMAS. 
Children  of  the  Abbey.     BY  REGINA 

MARIA  ROCHE. 
>  Child's     History     of     England.     BY 

CHARLES.  DICKENS. 
Christmas     Stories.        BY      CHARLES 

DICKENS. 
.Cloister  and  the  Hearth.     BY  CHARLES 

READE. 

Coleridge's  Poems.     BY  SAMUEL  TAY- 
LOR COLERIDGE. 
Columbus,   Christopher,   Life   of.     By 

WASHINGTON  IRVING. 
Companions  of  Jehu.     BY  ALEXANDRB 

DUMAS. 
,  Compb  -   Angler.     BY   WALTON   AND 

COTTON. 
.Conduct  of  Life.     BY  RALPH  WALD« 

EMERSON. 
Confessions  of  an  Opium  Eater.     BY 

THOMAS  DE  OUINCEY. 
Conquest  of  Granada.     BY  WASHING* 

TON  IRVING. 

Conscript.     BY  ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN. 
Conspiracy  of  Pontiac.     BY  FRANCIS 

PARKMAN,  JR. 

Conspirators.     BY    ALEXANDRE    DU- 
MAS. 

Consuelo.     BY  GEORGE  SAND. 
Cook's  Voyages.     BY  CAPTAIN  JAMBS 

COOK. 

Corimne.     BT  MADAME  DE  STAEL. 
Countess  de  Charney.     BY  ALEXANDRB 

DUMAS. 
Countess    Gisela.     BY    E     MARLITT. 


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SAND. 
Count     Robert     of     Paris.     BY     SIR 

WALTER  SCOTT. 
Country     Doctor      BY     HONORE     DE 

BALZAC. 
i,  Oourtship  of  Miles  Standish.    BY  H.  W. 

LONGFELLOW. 
Cousin  Maude.     BY  MARY  J.  HOLMES. 

•  Cranford.     BY  MRS.  GASKELL. 
Crockett,  David,  Life  of.     AN  AUTOBI- 
OGRAPHY. 

Cromwell,  Oliver,  Life  of.     BY  EDWIK 

PAXTON  HOOD. 

V-Crown    of    Wild    Olive.     BY    JOHN 
RUSKIN' 

Crusades.      BY  GEO.  W.  Cox,  M.  A. 

Daniel  Deronda.     BY  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Darkness  and  Daylight.     BY  MARY  J. 
HOLMES. 

Data  of  Ethics.     BY  HERBBRT  SPEN- 
CER. 

Daughter  of  an  Empress,  The.     BY 

LOUISA    MUHLBACH. 

\    David      Copperfield.        BY     CHARLES 

DICKENS. 

Days  of  Bruce.     BY  GRACE  AGUILAR. 
Deemster,  The.     BY  HALL  CAINE. 
%  Deerslayer,    Th«.     BY    JAMES    FENI- 

MORE  COOPER. 

Descent  of  Man.     BY  CHARLES  DAR- 
WIN. 
^Discourses  of  Epictetus.    TRANSLATED 

BY  GEORGE  LONG. 

>.  Divine     Comedy.     (DANTE.)     TRANS- 
LATED BY  REV.  M.  F.  CAREY. 
v  Dombey  &  Son.  BY  CHARLES  DICKENS. 
Donal  Grant.     BY  GEORGE  MACDON- 

ALD. 

Donovan.     BY  EDNA  LYALL. 

Dora  Deane.     BY  MARY  J.  HOLMES. 

Dove  in  the  Eagle's  Nest.     BY  CHAR- 
LOTTE M.  YONGB. 

Dream  Life.     BY  IK  MARVEL. 

Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde.     BY  R.  L. 
STEVENSON. 

Duty.     BY  SAMUEL  SMILES. 

Early  Days  of  Christianity.     BY  F.  W. 
FARRAR. 

East  Lynne.     BY  MRS.  HENRY  WOOD. 

Edith    Lyk's    Secret.     BY    MARY    J. 
HOLMES. 

Education.     BY  HERBERT  SPENCER. 

Egoist.     BY  GEORGE  MEREDITH. 

Egyptian    Princess.     BY    GEORGE 
EBERS. 

Eight  Hundred  Leagues  on  the  Ama- 
zon.    BY  JULES  VERNE. 

Eliot's  Poems.     BY  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

•  Elizabeth  and  her  German  Garden. 
Elizabeth  (Queen  of  England),  Life  of. 

BY  EDWARD  SPENCER  BEESLY,  M.A. 
Elsie  Venner.     BY  OLIVER  WENDELL 

HOLMES. 
Emerson's  Essays.     (COMPLETE.)     BY 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 
Emerson's  Poems.     BY  RALPH  WALDO 

EMERSON. 
English    Orphans.       BY      MART      J. 

HOLMES 


English  Traits.      BY  R.  W.  EMERSON. 
Essays     in     Criticism.     (FIRST     AND 

SECOND     SERIES.)     BY     MATTHBW 

ARNOLD. 

Essays  of  Elia.     BY  CHARLES  LAMB. 
Esther.     BY  ROSA  N.  CAREY. 
Ethelyn's     Mistake.     BY     MARY     J. 

HOLMES. 
•  Evangeline.     (WITH   NOTES.)     BY   H. 

W.  LONGFELLOW. 
Evelina,     BY  FRANCES  BURNEY. 
Fair  Maid  of  Perth,     BY  SIR  WALTBK 

SCOTT. 
Fairy  Land  of  Science.     BY  ARABELLA 

B.  BUCKLEY. 
Faust.     (GOETHE.)     TRANSLATED    BT 

ANNA  SWANWICK. 
Felix  Holt.     BY  GEORGE  ELIOT. 
Fifteen  Decisive  Battles  of  the  World. 

BY  E.  S.  CREASY. 

File  No.  113.     BY  EMILE  VJABORIAU. 
Firm  of  Girdlestone.     BY  A.   CONAN 

DOYLE. 

First  Principles.  BY  HERBERT  SPENCER, 
First  Violin.     BY  JESSIE  FOTHERGILI, 
For  Lilias.     BY  ROSA  N.  CAREY. 
Fortunes  of  Nigel.     BY  SIR  WALTER 

SCOTT. 
Forty-Five  Guardsmen.     BY  ALEXAN- 

DRE  DUMAS. 

Foul  Play.     BY  CHARLES  READE. 
Fragments     of     Science.     BY     JOH* 

TYNDALL. 
Frederick,    the    Great,    Life    of      BY 

FRANCIS  KUGLER. 
Frederick  the  Great  and  His  Court.     Bt 

LOUISA  MUHLBACH. 
French  Revolution.     BY  THOMAS  CAR- 

LYLE. 

From   the   Earth  to   the   Moon.     BY 

JULES  VERNE. 

Garibaldi,  General,  Life  of.     BY  THEO- 
DORE DWIGHT. 
Gil  Bias,  Adventures  of.     BY  A.  R.  La 

SAGE. 
.  Gold     Bug     and     Other    Taks.     B* 

EDGAR  A.  POE. 
Gold  Elsie.     BY  E.  MARLITT, 
Golden    Treasury.     BY    FRANCIS    T. 

PALGRAVE. 
Goldsmith's      Poems.       BY      OLIVBH 

GOLDSMITH. 
Grandfather's  Chair.     BY  NATHANIBI 

HAWTHORNE. 
Grant,  Ulysses  S.,  Life  of.     BY  J.  T. 

HEADLEY. 

Gray's  Poems.     BY  THOMAS  GRAY. 
Great      Expectations.     BY      CHARLES 

DICKENS. 
Greek   Heroes.     Fairy   Tales   for   Mj 

Children.     BY  CHARLES  KINGSLBY. 
Green  Mountain  Boys,  The.     BY  D.  P 

THOMPSON. 
Grimm's   Household  Tales.     BY   THI 

BROTHERS  GRIMM. 
Grimm's     Popular     Tales.     BY     THE 

BROTHERS  GRIMM. 

Gulliver's  Travels.     BY  DEAN  S~H?T 
Guy    Mannering-     BY    ^R    WA.LTEI 

SCOTT 


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tflandy  Andy.     BY  SAMUEL  LOVER. 
Hans  of  Iceland.     BY  VICTOR  HUGO. 
Hannibal,   the   Carthaginian,   Life  of. 

BY  THOMAS  ARNOLD,  M.  A. 
Hardy  Norseman,  A.    BY  EDNA  LYALL. 
Harold.     BY  BULWER-LYTTON. 
Harry  Lorrequer.    BY  CHARLES  LEVER. 
Heart  of  Midlothian.    BY  SIR  WALTER 

SCOTT. 
fleir  of  Redclyffe.     BY  CHARLETTB  M. 

YONGB. 
Hemsns'   Poems.     BY   MRS.   FELICIA 

HEMANS. 

Henry  Esmond.     BY  WM.  M.  THACK- 
ERAY. 
flenry,  Patrick,  Life  of.     BY  WILLIAM 

WIRT. 

Her  Dearest  Foe.     BY  MRS.  ALEXAN- 
DER. 

Hereward.     BY  CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 
Heriot's  Choice.     BY  ROSA  N.  CAREY. 
Heroes     and      Hero- Worship.        BY 

THOMAS  CARLYLE. 
Hiawatha.     (WITH  NOTES.)     BvH.W. 

LONGFELLOW. 
Hidden  Hand,  The.    (COMPLETE.)  BY 

MRS.  E.  D.  E.  N.  SOUTHWORTH. 
History    of    a    Crime.       BY    VICTOR 

HUGO. 
History  of  Civilization  in  Europe.     BY 

M.  GUIZOT. 
Holmes'  Poems.  (  EARLY)  BY  OLIVER 

WENDELL  HOLMES. 
Holy    Roman    Empire.     BY    JAMES 

BRYCE. 
Homestead  on  the  Hillside.     BY  MARY 

J.  HOLMES. 

Hood's  Poems.     BY  THOMAS  HOOD. 
House     of    the     Seven     Gables.     BY 

NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 
Hunchback     of     Notre     Dame.     BY 

VICTOR  HUGO. 

Hypatia.     BY  CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 
Hyperion.     BY    HENRY    WADSWORTH 

LONGFELL«W. 

Iceland  Fisherman,     BY  PIERRE  Lori. 
Idle  Thoughts  of  an  Idle  Fellow.     BY 

JEROME  K.  JEROME. 
Iliad,     POPE'S  TRANSLATION. 
Inez.     BY  AUGUSTA  J.  EVANS. 
Ingelow's  Poems.     BY  JEAN  INGELOW. 
Initials.     BY    THE    BARONESS    TAUT- 

PHOEUS. 

intellectual     Life.     BY     PHILIP     G. 

HAMERTON. 
In   the    Counsellor's   House.     BY    E. 

MARLITT. 
In     the     Golden     Days.     BY     EDNA 

LYALL 
In    the    Heart    of    the    Storm.     BY 

MAXWELL  GRAY. 
In  the  SchiUingscourt     BY  E.  MAR- 

LITT. 

IshmaeL     (COMPLETE)     BY  MRS.   E. 

D.  E.  N.  SOUTHWORTH. 
ft  Is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend.     BY 

CHARLES  READE 


Ivanhoe.     BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
Jane  Eyre.     BY  CHARLOTTE  BRONTS 
Jefferson,      Thomas,      Life      of.     Bv 

SAMUEL  M.  SCHMUCKER.  LLTD. 
Jean    of    Arc,    Life    of.     BY    JULES 

MlCHELET. 

John  Halifax,  Gentleman.     BY  Miss 

MULOCK. 
Jones,  John  Paul,  Life  of.     BY  JAMES 

OTIS. 
Joseph     Balsamo.     BY     ALEXANDRB 

DUMAS. 
Josephine,  Empress  of  Franca,  Life  of 

BY  FREDERICK  A.  OBER. 
Keats'  Poems.     BY  JOHN  KEATS. 
Kenilworth.     BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTI 
Kidnapped.     BY  R.  L.  STEVENSON. 
King  Arthur  and  His  Noble  Knights. 

BY  MARY  MACLEOD. 
Knickerbocker's  History  of  New  York. 

BY  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 
Knight  Errant.     BY  EDNA  LYALL. 
Koran.     TRANSLATED      BY      GEORGE 

SALE. 
•'Lady  of  the  Lake.     (WITH  NOTES.)     BY 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
Lady  with  the  Rubies.     BY  E.  MAR- 
LITT. 
Lafayette,  Marquis  de,   Life    of.     BY 

P.  C.  HEADLEY. 
.  Lalla     Rookh.     (WITH     NOTES.)     BY 

THOMAS  MOORE. 

•  Lamplighter.     BY    MARIA     S.    CUM- 
MINS. 

Last  Days  of  Pompeii.     BY  BULWER- 
LYTTON-. 

Last    of   the    Barons.     BY    BULWER- 
LYTTON. 
.Last    of    the    Mohicans.     BY    JAMES 

FENIMORE  COOPER. 
Lay    of    the    Last    Minstrel.     (WITH 

NOTES.)     BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
Lee,  General  Robert  E.,  Life  of.     BY 

G.  MERCER  ADAM. 
Lena  Rivers.     BY  MARY  J    HOLMES. 
Life   of    Christ.     BY    FREDERICK    W 

FARRAR. 

Life  of  Jesus.     BY  ERNEST  RENAN. 
Light     of     Asia.     BY     SIR     EDWIN 

ARNOLD 
Light    That    Failed.     BY     RUDVARW 

KIPLING. 
Lincoln,      Abraham,      Life      of.     BY 

HENRY  KETCHAM. 
Lincoln's   Speeches.     SELECTED    ANP 

EDITED  BV  G.  MERCER   ADAM. 
Literature  and  Dogma.     BY  MATTHEW 

ARNOLD 

'Little  Dorrit.  BY  CHARLES  DICKENS. 
Little  Minister.  BY  JAMES  M.  BARRIB. 
Livingstone,  David,  Life  of.  By 

THOMAS  HUGHES. 
Longfellow's  Poems.      (EARLY  )      Bt 

HENRY  W    LONGFELLOW. 
Lorna  Doone.     BY  R.  D.  BLACKMORE. 
Louise  de  la  Valliere.     BT  ALEXANDRI 

DUMAS. 
Love  Me  Little,  Love  M*  Long.     B' 

CHARLES  READE. 


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RUSSELL  LOWELL. 
V  Lucile.     BY  OWEN  MEREDITH. 
Macaria.     BY  AUGUSTA  J.  EVANS. 
Macaulay's  Literary  Essays.     BY  T.  B. 

MACAULAY. 
Macaulay's  Poems.     BY  THOMAS  BAB- 

INGTON  MACAULAY. 
Madame     Therese.     BY    ERCKMANN- 

CHATRIAN. 

Maggie  Miller.  BY  MARY  J.  HOLMES. 
Magic  Skin.  BY  HONORE  DE  BALZAC. 
Mahomet,  Life  of.  BY  WASHINGTON 

IRVING. 
Makers   of   Florence.     BY  MRS.  OLI- 

PHANT. 
Makers    of    Venice.     BY    MRS.    OLI- 

PHANT. 

Man  and  Wife.  BY  WILKIE  COLLINS. 
Man  in  the  Iron  Mask.  BY  ALEXAN- 

DRE  DUMAS. 

Marble  Faun.     BY  NATHANIEL  HAW- 
THORNE. 
Marguerite  de  la  Valois.     BY  ALEX- 

ANDRB    DUMAS. 

Marian  Grey.     BY  MARY  J.  HOLMES. 
Marius,  The  Epicurian.     BY  WALTER 

PATER. 
Marmion.     (WITH    NOTES.)     BY    SIR 

WALTER  SCOTT. 
Marquis     of     Lossie.     BY     GEORGE 

MACDONALD. 
Martin     Chuzzlewit       BY      CHARLES 

DICKENS. 
Mary,   Queen  of  Scots,  Life  of.     BY 

P.  C.  HEADLEY. 

Mary  St.  John.  BY  ROSA  N.  CAREY. 
Master  of  Ballantrae,  The.  BY.  R.  L. 

STEVENSON. 
Masterman  Ready.     BY  CAPTAIN  MAR- 

RYATT. 

Meadow  Brook.  BY  MARY  J.  HOLMES. 
Meditations  of  Marcus  Aurelius. 

TRANSLATED  BY  GEORGE  LONG. 
Memoirs  of  a  Physician.     BY  ALEXAN- 

DSE  DUMAS. 

Merle's  Crusade.     BY  ROSA  N.  CAREY. 
Micah  Clarke.     BY  A.  CONAN  DOLYE. 
Michael  Strogoff.     BY  JULES  VERNE. 
Middlemarch.     BY  GEORGE   ELIOT. 
Midshipman  Easy.     BY  CAPTAIN  MAR- 

RYATT 

Mildred.     BY  MARY  J.  HOLMES. 
Millbank.     BY  MARY  J.  HOLMES. 
Jj'iil  on  the  Floss.     BY  GEORGE  ELIOT. 
T-Hlton's  Poems.     BY  JOHN  MILTON. 
;ine  Own  People.     BYRUDYARDKIP- 

LING. 
Minister's  Wooing,  The.     BY  HARRIET 

BEECHER  STOWE. 

Monastery.     BY   SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
Moonstone.     BY   WILKIE    COLLINS. 
Moore's  Poems.     BY  THOMAS   MOORE 
Mosses    from    an     Old     Manse.     BY 

NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 
Murders    in    the    Rue    Morgue.     BY 

EDGAR  ALLEN  POB. 
Mysterious  Islant.     BY  JULES  VERNE. 
Napoleon  Bonaparte,  Life  of.     BY  P. 

C.  hEADLBY. 


Napoleon   and   His   Marshals.     BY  J. 

T.  KEADLBY. 
Natural  Law  in  the  Spiritual  World. 

BY  HENRY  DRUMMOND. 
^Narrative  of  Arthur  Gordon  Pym.     BY 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POB. 
Nature,  Addresses  and  Lectures.     BT 

R.  W.  EMERSON. 
Nellie's     Memories.     BY     ROSA      N. 

CAREY. 
Nelson,  Admiral  Horatio,  Life  of.     BY 

ROBERT  SOUTHBY. 
Newcomes.     BY  WILLIAM  M.  THACK 

ERAY. 
Nicholas  Nickleby.     BY  CHAS.   DICK 

ENS. 

.  Ninety-Three.     BY  VICTOR  HUGO. 
Not  Like  Other  Girls.     BY  ROSA   N, 

CAREY. 

Odyssey.     POPE'S  TRANSLATION. 
Old    Curiosity    Shop.     BY    CHARLES 

DICKENS. 
Old  Mam'selle's  Secret.     BY  E.  MAR- 

LITT. 

Old     Mortality.     BY     SIR     WALTER 

SCOTT. 
Old    Myddleton's    Money.     BY    MARY 

CECIL  HAY. 

^Oliver  Twist.     BY  CHAS.  DICKENS. 
Only    the    Governess.     BY    ROSA    N. 

CAREY. 
-On     the     Heights.     BY     BBRTHOLD. 

AUERBACH. 

Oregon  Trail.  BY  FRANCIS  PARK- 
MAN. 

Origin  of  Species.  BY  CHARLES 
DARWIN. 

Other  Worlds  than  Ours.  BY  RICH- 
ARD  PROCTOR. 

Our  Bessie.     BY  ROSA  N.  CARBY. 

Our  Mutual  Friend.  BY  CHAKLBS 
DICKENS. 

Outre-Mer.     BY  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

Owl's  Nest.     BY  E.  MARLITT. 

Page  of  the  Duke  of  Savoy.  BY 
ALEXANDRB  DUMAS. 

Pair  of  Blue  Eyes.  BY  THOMAS 
HARDY. 

Pan    Michael.      BY    HENRYK    SIEN- 

KIEWICZ. 

Past   and   Present     BY    THOS.    CAR- 

LYLE. 

Pathfinder.     BY     JAMBS      FBNIMORB, 

COOPER. 
Paul   and   Virginia.     BY    B.    DE    ST 

PIERRE. 
Pendennis.  History  of.     BY   WM.  M 

THACKERAY. 

Perm,  William,  Life  of.  BY  W.  HEP- 
WORTH  DIXON. 

Pere  Goriot.     BY  HONORE  DE  BALZAC. 
Peter,  the  Great,  Life  of.     BY  JOHN 

BARROW. 
Peveril  of  the  Peak.     BY  SIR  WALTER 

SCOTT. 
Phantom  Rickshaw,   The.     BY   RUD- 

YARD  KIPLING. 
Philip  IL  of  Spain,  Life  of.     BY  MAR 

TIN-  A.  S.  HUME. 
Picciola.     BY  X.  B   -SAINTINS. 


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V Mckwick  Papers.     BY  CHARLES  DICK- 

EMS. 

Pilgrim's  Pregress.    BY  JOHN  BUNYAN. 
Pillar  of  Fire.     BY  REV.  J.  H.  INGRA- 

HAM. 

Pilot.     BY  JAMBS  FENIMORB  COOPBR. 
;    Pioneers.       BY      JAMBS      FENIMORB 

COOPER. 

Pirate.     BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills.     BY  RUD- 

YARD  KIPLING. 
Plato's  Dialogues.    TRANSLATED  BY  J. 

WRJGHT,  M.  A. 
Pleasures    of    Life.     BY    SIR    JOHN 

LUBBOCK. 

Poe's  Poems.     BY  EDGAR  A.  POE. 
Pope's  Poems.     BY  ALEXANDER  POPE. 
Prairie.     BY  JAMES  F.  COOPER. 
Pride   and   Prejudice.     BY  JANE  Aus- 

TBN. 
Prince  of  the  House  of  David.     BY 

REV.  J.  H.  INGRAHAM. 
Princess  of  the  Moor.     BY  E.  MARLITT. 
Princess     of     Thule.    BY     WILLIAM 

BLACK. 

Procter's  Poems.     BY  ADELAIDE  PROC- 
TOR. 
Professor  at  the  Breakfast  Table.     BY 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 
Professor.     BY    CHARLOTTE    BRONTE. 
Prue   and   I.     BY   GEORGE    WILLIAM 

CURTIS. 
Put  Yourself  in  His  Place.     BY  CHAS. 

READS. 
Putnam,  General  Israel,  Life  of    BY 

GEORGE  CANNING  HILL. 
Queen  Hortense.     BY  LOUISA  MUHL- 

BACH. 

Queenie's  Whim.     By  ROSA  N.  CAREY. 
Queen's    Necklace.     BY    ALBXANDRB 

DUMAS. 
Quentin  Durward.     BY  SIR  WALTER 

SCOTT. 
Rasselas,    History    of.     BY    SAMUEL 

JOHNSON. 

Redgauntlet.     BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
Red    Rover.     BY    JAMBS    FBNIMORB 

COOPER. 
Regent's  Daughter.     BY  ALBXANDBB 

DUMAS. 

Reign  of  Law.     BY  DUKE  OP  ARGYLB. 
Representative      Men.       BY      RALPH 

WALDO  EMERSON. 
Republic   of  Plato.     TRANSLATED   BY 

DAVIBS  AND  VAUGHAN. 
Return  of   the   Native.     BY   THOMAS 

HARDY. 

Reveries  of  a  Bachelor.     BY  IK  MAR- 
VEL. 
Reynard  the  Fox.     EDITED  BY  JOSEPH 

JACOBS. 

Rienzi.     BY  BuLWBR-LYTTON. 
Richelieu,     Cardinal,     Life     of.     BY 

RICHARD  LODGE. 

Robinson  Crusoe.     BY  DANIEL  DEPOB. 
Rob  Roy.     BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
Romance  of  Natural  History.     BY  P. 

H.  GOSSB. 
Romance  of  Two  Worlds.     BY  MARIE 

Oouui 


Romola.     BY  GEORGE  ELIOT. 
Rory  O'More.     BY  SAMUEL  LOVE*. 
Rose  Mather.     BY  MARY  J.  HOLMBS. 
Rossetti's  Poems.     BY  GABRIEL  DANIB 

ROSSBTTI. 
Royal     Edinburgh.     BY     MRS.     OLV 

PHANT. 

Rutledge.     BY  MIRIAN  COLES  HARMS. 
Saint  Michael     BY  E.  WERNER. 
Samantha    at    Saratoga.     BY    JOSIAH 

ALLBR'S    WIFB.     (MARIETTA    HOL- 

LBY.) 
Sartor   Resartus.     BY    THOMAS    CAR. 

LYLB. 
,  Scarlet  Letter.     BY  NATHANIEL  HAW- 

HORNE. 

Schonberg-Cotta    Family.     BY    MRS. 

ANDREW  CHARLES. 
Schopenhauer's  Essays.     TRANSLATED 

BY  T.  B.  SAUNDERS. 
Scottish  Chiefs.     BY  JANE  PORTER. 
Scott's     Poems.     BY     SIR     WALTER 

SCOTT. 
Search     for     Basil     Lyndhurst     By 

ROSA  N.  CAREY. 
Second  Wife.     BY  E.  MARLITT. 
Seekers  After  God.     BY  F.  W.  FARRAR. 
Self-Help.     BY  S/MUEL  SMILES. 
Self-Raised.     (COMPLETE.)     BY    MRS. 

E.  D.  E.  N.  SOUTHWORTH. 
Seneca's  Morals. 
Sense     and     Sensibility.     BY     JANB 

AUSTEN. 
Sentimental  Journey.     BY  LAWRENCE 

STERNE. 

Sesame  and  Lilies.  BY  JOHN  RUSKIN. 
Shakespeare's  Heroines.  BY  ANNA 

JAMESON. 
Shelley's  Poems.     BY  PERCY  BYSSHB 

SHELLEY. 

Shirley.     BY  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 
Sign    of    the    Four.     BY    A.  CONAN 

DOYLB. 

Silas  Marner.     BY  GEORGE  ELIOT. 
Silence  of  Dean  Maitland,     BY  MAX- 
WELL GRAY. 

Sir  Gibbie.  BY  GEORGE  MACDONALD 
Sketch  Book.  BY  WASHINGTON  IRV 

ING. 

Smith,  Captain  John,  Life  of.     BY  W 

GILMORE  SIMMS. 
Socrates,  Trial  and  Death  of.     TRANB 

LATED  BY  F.  J.  CHURCH.  M.  A. 

Soldiers    Three.     BY    RUDYARD    KIP. 

LING. 

Springhaven.  BY  R.  D.  BLACKMORB. 
Spy.  BY  JAMBS  FENIMORB  COOPBR. 
Stanley,  Henry  M.,  African  Explorer, 

Life  of.     BY  A.  MONTEFIORB. 
Story  of  an  African  Farm.     BY  OLITB 

SCHREINBR. 
Story  of  John  G.  Paton.     TOLD  rov 

YOUNG     FOLKS.     BY     REV.    JAS. 

PATON. 
St   Ronan's  WelL     BY  SIR  WALTER 

SCOTT. 
Study    in    Scarlet     BY    A.    ODI«AW 

DOYLE. 


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